


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

by chrofeather



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Feudal Politics, Gen, Kidnapping, Political Instability, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrofeather/pseuds/chrofeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A captured king, a dark premonition, and now a missing prince... Mirkwood is in terrible danger, both from inside and out, and so is her royal family. Legolas and Thranduil are far from home, and with a mysterious shadow at their backs, their journeys are made all the more perilous...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ill-Fated Words

_Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night_

_A fanfiction by chrofeather_

_~1~_

_Ill-Fated Words_

_._

_._

_._

 

Wind fluttered through the branches of the trees, and the horses stood waiting, tossing their heads and snorting in anticipation of the journey ahead. Their eighteen elven riders stood ready as well, waiting to depart. The weather was fair in the forests of the Greenwood today, but all of the woodland elves could feel the warmth of summer slipping from the breeze as autumn grew near. It was best that they made the journey now, before the forest decided to play one of its many tricks. King Thranduil knew this well, and it was for this reason that they departed a week early for the forests of Lorien, where a meeting of the elven council was being held this decade. He intended to make sure Greenwood the Great had a voice in matters of the council, no matter the state of affairs between the two of them.

But this reasoning had not swayed the Prince, who had far less patience for court matters such as these. “ _Ada_ , you cannot be serious about this,” Legolas said in the same consternated voice he used when expressing his dislike of politics. He was a far better warrior than a diplomat, he insisted, and he should be out on patrol duty rather than being holed up in the palace for the duration of his father’s absence. “The council meeting is not for nearly a fortnight!” 

For his part, however, Thranduil simply ignored his son’s protests. He tired of explaining the same thing to Legolas over and over again, and not a word ever reached the Prince’s ears. “I will not stand to be late to such an event,” said the king as he fastened his cloak about his shoulders, already on his way out. “And you, _ion nin_ , will one day rule this kingdom. You must not shirk your duties now, for you will carry far more weight in the future.”

Legolas frowned. He didn’t like it when his father spoke of such things. “I doubt I will be King of Mirkwood within even a few millennia,” he countered, following Thranduil down the stone corridor as they neared the exit, outside of which the eighteen riders of the king’s escort were waiting. “If ever. You know my strengths lie in battle.”

Thranduil’s cloak fluttered about him as he mounted his white gelding swiftly, looking down at Legolas impassively from the saddle. “I care to hear no more of your complaints,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, blue eyes focused sternly on the one who stood like a chastised elfling before him. “I will return within a moon, Legolas. Until then, your responsibility lies with Mirkwood.” 

Legolas met his father’s gaze only briefly before he dropped his head, staring downwards. “Yes, my lord,” he murmured in reply, knowing that further protest was futile. Thranduil was notoriously stubborn when it came to any kind of decision. Once his mind was made, it was nigh-impossible to change.

Seeing that Legolas had no more words for him, Thranduil guided his horse further up the path, where he was flanked by two archers, and eight others rode in front while the other eight rode behind. He thought it unnecessary and slightly hassling that such a grand escort had to accompany him to Lorien, but the captain of the guard would not hear of the king riding alone outside their borders. It was too great of a risk to take, he said, especially with the threat of the shadow creeping across the land.

“To Lórien,” Thranduil said to the archers with a nod, and the clack of hooves on stone marked the beginning of their journey, the procession quickly disappearing into the thick forests.

Legolas watched them go with a baleful stare, feeling a mixture of frustration and resentment now that he was left with the task of petty court matters in his father’s absence. “It has been three thousand years, _adar_ , and still you treat me like an elfling,” he muttered under his breath.

The sudden touch of a hand on his shoulder startled the Prince, and he turned swiftly to meet the gaze of Raenor, the ever solemn-faced captain of the archers. “Does something trouble you, Prince Legolas?”

Raenor had an uncanny ability to read emotions, Legolas thought, and his powers of perception were appreciated, just maybe not at the moment. “It is nothing,” sighed the prince, turning to glance at the woods. “I was merely thinking.”

“King Thranduil is only doing what he thinks best,” came Raenor’s voice from behind him, carried by the gentle breeze that had picked up, stirring Legolas’ long blond hair. 

Legolas let out another quiet sigh. “I know, _mellon nin_ , I know. But he cannot trust me to decide for myself where I can best serve our people?” The thought, which had been nagging at his mind for days, stung his pride. He hated that his father still treated him like a child even when he had proven himself time and time again. It didn’t seem fair that no matter what he did, it was not enough.

Raenor’s stormy gaze stared into the forest over Legolas’ shoulder, fixated on a nondescript point in the distance. “He trusts your judgment, Legolas. If he did not, how could he trust you to command the kingdom he has spent many long centuries protecting?”

The Prince’s eyes shifted right, where Raenor had come to stand next to him. “He trusts me to assume the part of a dutiful prince, playing at words in court while he is away.” Raenor’s words had truth to them, but Legolas could not help but be bitter. It felt like a slap in the face, especially after he had worked so hard to please his father. Thranduil could be infuriatingly difficult to please, and even more so to talk to. After centuries of trying to impress his father, Legolas had expected something… more. 

“Because you are the Prince,” said Raenor simply, his gaze meeting Legolas’ own. “It is your duty, even if you like it not.”

“I know it is my duty,” Legolas said testily, turning his gaze back to the forest, his eyes restlessly scanning the fluttering leaves. “But my duty also lies with my people, to protect them from the threats we face out there.” He extended his arm in a broad, sweeping gesture that indicated the dense forests of Mirkwood. “I could do much more if I were on patrol duty like I should be.”

“You sound like a petulant child,” Raenor said in a reproachful tone, the elf’s stormy gray eyes fixated sternly on Legolas. “Like an elfling who has been denied some frivolous whim.” While he was Legolas’ friend, and he did not like chastising him, the Prince needed to see his own folly. “There is nothing you can do to change it now, so do what you must: represent our kingdom, and your father, with grace.”

Legolas turned to Raenor with a frown, feeling betrayed. “When did I say I would not?” he said, trying to deflect the chastising tone.

 Raenor sighed. “It was merely advice, _penneth_ ,” he said, having given up on making Legolas see sense. It would come to the Prince once his frustration had mellowed, but not before. _How alike are father and son..._ Raenor had known Thranduil in his younger days; the two of them had been soldiers in Mirkwood’s army when Oropher still ruled, and Legolas was most definitely his father’s son. He had known Legolas from the time the Prince had been born.

 “I do not need it,” retorted Legolas, still entrenched in his frustration. If he was to keep watch over the kingdom, then he would do it all himself. After all, that was what his father did every day. Perhaps this would prove to stubborn Thranduil that his son was no longer an irresponsible elfling.

 “Then you will excuse me if I take my leave,” said Raenor as he shook his head, turning back toward the palace, where he had intended to visit the healing halls in order to check on one of their wounded archers. The breeze made his cloak flap as he turned away, a sigh that echoed his own. _Have caution, my Prince,_ he advised silently. _Danger lies in far more than just the forest._

 

~oOo~

.

.

.

 A mere five days into his father’s absence, Legolas felt like his nerves were already fraying. He didn’t know how anyone could do this day in and day out, at least not without going mad! The Prince groaned and put his head in his hands, unable to concentrate further on the stack of papers in front of him. He slumped at his desk, wanting nothing more than to just walk away from it all. “Is this why you were so eager to leave, _adar_?” he muttered under his breath, only half-joking. He sighed and set down his quill, leaving it in the inkwell as he rubbed his tired eyes. It was only noon, yet Legolas felt like he had not slept at all. He glanced down at the pages of trade agreements in front of him, renewals of wine trading contracts with Esgaroth, and sighed again. Why did the damn things have to be so long? It could have been summarized in far fewer words, Legolas thought. But he had to read them all, just to make sure they were not being cheated by a stray phrase. Loopholes were damn inconvenient things.

After skimming over the last paragraphs, Legolas scrawled a signature at the bottom, unable to force himself to read further. No harm would come of it, he was sure. The men of Esgaroth were honest people, for the most part, and had never once tried to cheat them. The Prince then laid down his quill with a sigh, rubbing his temples as he felt a headache coming on. “Valar help me,” he muttered to himself. He had to keep this up for another week, at the least.

There was a knock on the door, just as Legolas’ thoughts had begun to drift toward the forest and the open window in his office. He glanced up, grateful for the distraction. “You may enter,” he called, and the doors opened to reveal a familiar face. He smiled, relaxing his diplomatic façade. “Lainathiel. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see if the Prince would join me on a quick ride,” replied the elleth with a mischievous smile. Her dark chestnut hair was neatly braided in the back, and the warrior plaits above her ears made her youthful face look mature beyond her few centuries. She and Legolas had become friends due to their shared experiences on border patrols, and he appreciated her bright, fiery enthusiasm and her frank, sometimes sarcastic wit, even if she could be a bit overzealous with it sometimes.

Legolas looked at her with a wry smile. “I wish I could,” he said truthfully. “But I have far more papers to read than I have eyes, so it is slow going.”

Lainathiel merely laughed. “Can’t you give it a rest, Legolas? You’ve got that same grumpy look that King Thranduil gets when he’s had enough.”

Legolas could not help but chuckle. “Am I truly so reminiscent of a dragon with the belly flux?” he joked, already feeling the weight of stress lessen on his shoulders.

“Terrifyingly so,” Lainathiel grinned, her brown eyes glimmering with teasing amusement. “Come. You might enjoy a respite from all this dullness.”

Legolas chuckled again as he stood, stretching the stiffness from his back. “Perhaps you are right. I will be of no use to the kingdom if I fall asleep at my desk.” He decided that he would go, if only because it would break the monotony of such a dull task. Besides, what could a little ride hurt? He was hardly abandoning his duties, merely postponing them. 

“Good,” Lainathiel smiled, swiftly turning and heading for the main gate with Legolas right behind. “The day is beautiful beneath the trees, my Prince, and you are missing it.” 

“ _Ai_ , you do not think I know?” Legolas chuckled as they followed the winding path to the stables, which despite their dusty atmosphere were a welcome respite from the stuffiness of his office. He greeted his mount with soft words and a gentle pat between her ears, smiling as he saddled her, tightening the girth straps with an ease given by centuries of practice and muscle memory. “I think this has been the longest week of my life.”

Lainathiel gave a laugh as she saddled her own horse, a gray gelding with a silver mane. “That is certainly a feat,” she said in amusement, and even the horses gave a snort as the two elves led them from the stables. The day was warm if one stood under the sun, though it was cool beneath the forest’s thick canopy, the trees whispering to one another as the breeze rustled their leaves. “But you can forget it here, for a little while.”

Legolas mounted his horse with a smile, the chestnut mare tossing her head in anticipation. “Valar knows I need to,” he said with a glance at his companion, who was already trotting forward on her gray gelding.

“We all knew that,” the elleth laughed, and her smile was knowing as she glanced over her shoulder at Legolas.

 The Prince merely grinned and tapped his heels to the mare’s sides, trotting forward to ride beside Lainathiel on the winding forest path. Already Legolas felt his nerves calm as he was surrounded by the soothing greens and browns of the forest, where he was always most at ease. Of course, this did not mean that he let his guard down; the forests of the Greenwood, though it was better known now as Mirkwood, were still dangerous, filled with giant spiders and orcs that came from the sinister Dol Goldur. But Legolas had spent his whole life in these woods, centuries of learning its vastness and its secrets. The forest stretched for hundreds of miles, though few ventured far from the elven stronghold in the north of the forest, except on patrols or missions beyond their borders.

One could wander for weeks in the woodland realm without ever seeing the same tree or plant or bird twice, and it was notoriously easy to get lost, even for an elf, if their attention was to wander. But the attention of elves did not often wander, and the number of their people lost to the misfortunes of the forest was small. A gentle breeze whistled through the trees, like the forest itself heaving a content little sigh that ruffled Legolas’ hair, the touch cool upon his skin.

The Prince kept a watchful eye out for anything that could be nearby, whether it be spiders or orcs or other riders, but so far the woods had been peaceful. Summer was fading, but today it seemed to strive to make its presence known before the chill of autumn set in. What changes the new season would bring, Legolas did not know, but he could not help the feeling of foreboding that came with the thought of winter. _The shadow grows stronger_ , he thought silently, his expression suddenly grim. _We cannot deny it any longer. Even the presence of Dol Guldur grows oppressive._ The woodland elves had been, for the most part, unaffected by the growing evil so far, but Legolas knew that it could not last. Mirkwood elves could not afford to turn a blind eye as evil brewed within their lands.

“You are troubled again,” Lainathiel observed, and her voice broke through Legolas’ trance of thought. But her own voice was unusually solemn, the light of mischievous cheer gone from her eyes. She, too, knew that the world became darker as Mordor’s shadow grew.

“It is nothing we can change. We must be vigilant, but not afraid,” replied the Prince, his blue eyes meeting the elleth’s dark brown.

Lainathiel looked as though she was about to speak, but she suddenly stiffened, and her mount gave a low, nervous whinny. The forest had suddenly gone eerily silent, no wind or birdsong or even the whispers of the trees talking to each other. There was naught but an oppressive silence that somehow overshadowed the warm day with an eerie chill. She looked at Legolas with an expression of grave concern, her eyes dark. 

Legolas felt it as well, the sudden dark aura that came over the forest, and the oppressive silence that followed close behind. He had a feeling of deep foreboding, his grip tightening on the reins as his stomach twisting with sudden dread. “Something has happened,” he said quietly, though he hated to think of what it might be.

“Something terrible,” continued Lainathiel in a low voice, staring at the path ahead with a grave expression. “The forest darkens in recoil to it.”

Legolas felt a tug somewhere inside him as he stared at the now-ominous forest path in front of them. “Yes,” he agreed. “But we cannot turn back. Something tells me we cannot.” 

“What can that possibly mean?” Lainathiel looked at him with an incredulous stare. “We must go back and warn the elves of the guard! Our patrols could be in great danger.”

Legolas shook his head. “No,” he said, feeling agitated as the feeling grew stronger, and he looked at Lainathiel. “We must see it for ourselves before we spread false terror among our people.” 

The elleth looked reluctant, dread creeping in the back of her mind, but she could not leave the Prince to do it alone. “Very well,” she conceded, her gaze hard. “But we must do it quickly. I do not like this feeling.”

“Neither do I,” Legolas said as he spurred his mount onwards at a swift canter, with Lainathiel following close behind. “But I must trust my instincts.” The feeling only grew stronger as they continued along the winding path, dappled with dark shadows of the forest canopy, and Legolas had to quiet his own racing thoughts. He had to remain calm, else the shadows of his own mind would overwhelm him.

Suddenly his horse would go no further, stopping abruptly with a loud, nervous whinny and tossing her head. Legolas started, nearly dislodged from the saddle by his own momentum. He patted the mare’s neck soothingly, murmuring soft words to her while he looked around with wide eyes, trying to find the source of what had spooked her. Then it hit him: the metallic, copper smell of blood, thick and choking in the air, and Legolas had to restrain a noise of disgust. 

By the look on her face, Lainathiel had smelled it as well, and she held her sleeve over her nose to block the metallic stink. “ _Yrch_ … There has been bloodshed nearby.” 

“I smell it as well,” Legolas said, his expression only more concerned as he dismounted and ran, desperate to get to the source of this foreboding. Orc blood stank like rot, but the blood of elves and dwarves and men smelled metallic, and the thickness of such stench could only mean much death…

…when he arrived at the scene, Legolas stopped dead, and he could only stare in horror. There were bodies scattered all across the path, elven corpses, the dusty earth drenched in dark blood. Arrows feathered the trees, both orcish and elven, and the underbrush was trampled and broken on both sides of the path. Several horses lay dead, their bodies torn apart and devoured in the way that was characteristic of orcs, though there were orc bodies as well. The whole scene was drenched in blood, its overwhelming stench thick in the air, and it made Legolas’ stomach turn just to look at it. He looked at it with wide, anguished eyes, feeling the ominous chill in his mind turn to complete horror.

“ _Ai,_ Valar, no…” the Prince whispered, stumbling to the side of a dead elf with an arrow through his throat, turning the body over to confirm his suspicions. He saw the Mirkwood insignia on the dead elf’s armor and let out a choked moan of horror. This was the remains of the king’s escort, all eighteen guards slaughtered. “No…!” 

Hearing Legolas’ stricken cries, Lainathiel ran to him, prepared for the worst with her bow drawn and an arrow nocked. But she gasped when she saw, her own eyes wide with horror, and she lowered her bow immediately. “Legolas…! What has happened here…?” 

Legolas forced himself to keep his voice steady, though his heart felt like an orcish arrow had been put through it. “My father’s escort… This is all of them…”

Lainathiel put a hand over her mouth in horror, feeling her own heart constrict. “Valar, let it not be true…” She went from body to body, turning them over and finding each of them with a sword or arrow piercing them. She mourned for them, for they had been her friends and good people who loved their kingdom. But there was something conspicuously missing… “Legolas,” she said quietly, coming to stand beside him. “King Thranduil is not among the dead. There are eighteen here, but not he.” 

Legolas looked up, realizing that what she said was true. “But if my father is not here… then where?” he whispered, more to himself than to Lainathiel.

Suddenly a broken, gurgling cry cut through the air, choked and clearly in pain, and Lainathiel let out a quiet gasp. Both she and Legolas rushed to the elf who had made the sound, kneeling beside him where he lay on the side of the forest path. 

The grisly spear wound in his upper chest prevented him from moving at all, but he panted shallowly and raggedly, eyes barely open as the two elves came to him. “My Prince…” he croaked, lips stained with blood.

 “Saeldhur…” Legolas breathed, feeling a pang of emotion as he recognized his friend, reaching out to touch his cheek. “ _Mellon nin,_ what happened here?”

 Saeldhur coughed weakly, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “Orc ambush…” he managed. “From both sides… They were many, and heavily armed. Forgive me, Prince Legolas…”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Legolas whispered, feeling a wave of guilt in his heart that Saeldhur was apologizing in his last moments. “But please, we must know… where is my father?” 

The dying elf’s eyes fluttered, his strength fading. “Orcs… wanted him alive,” he croaked. “He is alive… But to where he has been taken… I do not know…” 

Legolas felt his stomach twist with dread. “No… It cannot be…”

Lainathiel glanced from Legolas to Saeldhur, her gaze deeply worried. “We must go back now,” she insisted. “He needs a healer!”

Saeldhur shook his head weakly, his breaths growing steadily weaker. “No… I will not survive that long…” he panted. “Go now… I am finished.”

“No, _mellon nin_ , we will not leave you!” Legolas insisted desperately, but Saeldhur’s eyes were already glazing over, and soon he breathed no more.

Legolas looked helplessly stricken, and he bowed his head in mournful silence. “…the orcs will pay for this,” he vowed, his tone low.

“We must go,” Lainathiel said quietly, touching Legolas’ arm. “We must tell everyone what has happened.” She was rattled by the sight of such a slaughter, just as he was, but the safety of their people took precedence over grieving.

Legolas nodded after a long moment, rising to his feet with a grave countenance. “Of course,” he murmured, walking back to the horses. “We must tell our people of the danger, and tell the families of these elves of their passing.”

Lainathiel watched the Prince for a moment before she mounted her horse, the gray gelding snorting impatiently beneath her. “Shall we send word to Lord Elrond and the others? They will be waiting for King Thranduil’s arrival.”

“Not yet,” replied Legolas after a short silence, as he turned his horse back toward the direction of the elven stronghold. “We must deal with our own people first. The convening of the council is not for another week, and if we can muster up a search, we may yet find my father in time.”

The elleth dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I pray that we shall.” As the two of them rode hard to reach the elven stronghold before the sun dipped low, she could not help but feel that it would not be so easy. _Valar help us._

 


	2. Dol Guldur

_~2~_

_Dol Guldur_

~oOo~

.

.

.

 

The world seemed to be swimming in a haze when Thranduil opened his eyes, disoriented and confused. His head throbbed with a fierce ache, and his whole body felt sore, like he had been trampled by a horse. There was a sudden bump that jostled his whole body, and he groaned softly in pain, realizing that he was lying across the back of a horse. He blinked a few times, trying to squirm and realizing that he was bound hand and foot with tough ropes. 

The shape in front of him, presumably the horse’s rider, twisted around to see what the disturbance was. “Oi, the elf-scum’s awake!” a rough voice shouted in harsh Common Tongue, deep and throaty, and Thranduil jolted as he remembered in fragmented pieces what had happened. The orcs, the ambush, and then nothing but murky darkness…

He didn’t have time to think any further as a burly orc with a disfigured face rode up next to them and suddenly sliced his arm with the tip of a black-bladed knife, his green face twisted into a grin. “That should keep ‘im down for the count,” he chuckled.

“Make sure he stays tha’ way,” the other orc replied, sounding smug. “The Captain wanted ‘im alive, but we can’t ‘ave ‘im squirmin’ too much.”

Thranduil wanted to say something, to move or thrash or reach for his sword, but he found himself strangely unable to do any of those things. His body felt limp and heavy, his mind in a strange fog. Vaguely he realized that they must have tipped their arrows and knives with some kind of sedative, meant to keep him compliant but alive. He could only imagine what for, though his muddled mind couldn’t dwell on it as he felt a thick sleepiness come over him. Even the continuous movement of the horse couldn’t keep him awake, and he succumbed to the sedative once more.

It wasn’t a strong dose, apparently, since Thranduil drifted in and out of consciousness as the orcs rode on, the sky darker each time he opened his eyes. But he was still far too weak to do more than that thanks to the drug, and he was still in a daze when the group of riders came to a halt in front of a dark though horribly familiar crumbling fortress.

 The words _Dol Guldur_ drifted briefly through the Elvenking’s mind, but he could do nothing except lie there in a drug-induced stupor as the orcs dragged him off the horse and into the dark fortress, cutting the ropes around his wrists and ankles and replacing them with iron shackles. The stone walls were dark and cold as they went deeper into the ancient stronghold, which was teeming with orcs and flickering torchlight, the air smoky and acrid.

The burly orc shoved Thranduil to his knees none too gently, and the elf king shot a glare at the grinning creature over his shoulder. He glanced around the dimly lit room, which was broad and open, with one wall crumbled away in a pile of rubble. The sedative finally wearing off, Thranduil was able to take stock of his surroundings, and the prospects were looking dark. He had never personally seen the interior of Dol Guldur in its darkness before, and he had never desired to, though it seemed that hardly mattered now.

“What is it you want with me?” asked the elf king in a low voice, his sharp eyesight allowing him to see the figure standing in the darkness on the other side of the room, pinning it with his cold gaze. “Show yourself, creature.”

 A raspy chuckle came from the shadows where the tall figure stood, and a monstrous orc emerged within a few paces, grinning. Even Thranduil was shocked by the orc’s size; he had to be eight feet tall at the least, with broad shoulders and hands that looked as though they could crush solid stone, and a flat, pockmarked face of grey skin. Bright and beady yellow eyes were set beneath a prominent brow ridge, and his too-wide grin showed off sharp, jagged teeth. His dirty, blood-matted hair was tied in a messy topknot, and there were white lines of scarification running parallel down the sides of his face. His face twisted into a sinister grin, the torchlight reflected in his beady yellow eyes.

 “What have we here, boys?” said the tall orc with a guttural laugh, though the look in his eyes said that he already knew.

“We’ve caught the elf king, Captain,” the burly orc said with a snort of pride, putting his heavy boot into Thranduil’s back to force him to his hands and knees with a grunt. “Like you asked. They walked right into our trap. No bites out of ‘im, either.”

“Good,” the orc captain rumbled, pleased. “You have done well, Durgash. For this you will be rewarded.” The smirk on his face and the gleam in his eyes spoke of bloodlust, and Thranduil could not help the chill he felt in his heart.

Durgash’s fanged grin was eager. “We ‘aven’t tasted elf flesh in a long time, Cap’n Dagok,” he said, and the other orcs immediately launched into a cacophony of agreement.

Dagok held up a hand and silenced them. “This one is not for eating.” This caused the group of orcs to groan and snort angrily, but a glare from their leader made them silent again. He smirked. “But make as many attacks on unsuspecting patrols as you like. Eat until your bellies burst.”

The orcs cackled triumphantly at this, clearly eager, and their enthusiasm made Thranduil’s blood run cold. “Keep your filthy hordes away from my people!” he spat, glaring up at the leader of the group from his position on his knees. “Do what you will with me, but leave them.”

Dagok laughed at this, a harsh, barking sound that was like claws on a stone wall. “How noble of you, elf king,” he sneered. “But you are not in a position to be making demands.” One of his clawed hands, tipped with jagged black nails, tilted Thranduil’s head back, pressing threateningly into the soft flesh of his throat. “Here, you are mine.”

Thranduil stared coldly up at the orc, whose yellow eyes glinted in the flickering torchlight. “I belong to no one,” he said in a clipped tone. “Tell me what it is you seek from me. I care not for frivolous games.”

Dagok grinned his too-wide grin, showing off his jagged teeth and purple-black gums. “You are going to tell us your kingdom’s secrets, elf.”

Thranduil’s gaze remained cold and impassive. “And if I do not?”

Dagok smirked and dragged one black claw down the length of the Elvenking’s throat, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. “Then I can assure you that you will die screaming.”

“Do your worst.” The words were out of Thranduil’s mouth before he could stop them, and he briefly thought that perhaps it might not have been wise.

The tall orc grinned. “I was hoping you would say that.” His hand shot out in a strike quicker than a snake, his fist impacting Thranduil’s jaw with enough force to throw him to the ground in a heap.

Thranduil lay stunned for a moment, his ears ringing from the force of the blow. He had not seen it coming at all, though he supposed he should have, and the orc’s brute strength had caught him off guard. His head throbbed where he had hit the ground, and his jaw ached fiercely from the orc’s knuckles, though he pulled himself to his knees again, glaring even as blood trickled from his lip. “You are a fool to think that I will tell you anything.”

 Dagok merely laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “You will regret those words once I’m done with you,” he grinned, and it seemed like he was very much looking forward to it. He looked to the group of orcs still in the room. “Boys, I think this upstart elf needs to be taught a little respect for his superiors. Have at him.”

Each of the five orcs immediately grinned and came forward, clearly eager to exact their revenge. They held a deep grudge against the elves for slaughtering so many of their own, after all. “That won’t be a problem at all,” said the burly orc, baring his fangs in a grin.

“You must leave him alive, of course,” Dagok ordered, calmly watching as another orc tossed Thranduil against the wall like he weighed nothing and slammed his mailed fist into the elf’s stomach, causing him to double over in pain, wheezing. “Beat him bloody if you must. But make sure he is compliant for our later plans. 

“Of course, Cap’n,” said another orc with stringy hair and a hooked nose, grinning through black teeth. “He’ll give ya no trouble once we’re done with ‘im.”

Dagok merely smiled a cold smile as he watched the five orcs surround Thranduil and pummel him, their blows heavy with long-awaited vengeance. _Good. Their brutality for once serves me well._ He had always wanted to try his hand at breaking an elf, for they were not so different from men. Immortal, perhaps, but that was useless when they were in the hands of Dol Guldur’s commander. And when he pried the secrets of Mirkwood from its king, delivering them to his master Saruman would be all the more satisfying. Then it would be easy to crush Mirkwood and the Silvan elves once and for all, claiming the forest for their dark master. He smirked and turned to the door; his subordinates could have their fun for a while.

~oOo~

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 Thranduil’s body hit the stone floor with a heavy thump as he was shoved roughly into a dark stone cell in the deep pits of the fortress, the orcs cackling outside as they shut the barred door with a clang and locked it. “Don’t think this is over, elf-scum,” one of them said in his rough, throaty growl, his face twisted into a grin. “The cap’n will have his fun with you later.” They all shared a chuckle at that and walked away, leaving their prisoner alone in the darkness of the cell.

 Thranduil simply lay on the floor for a moment, gritting his teeth to keep silent even as his battered body throbbed with pain. He forced himself to sit up after a moment, hissing softly as the movement aggravated his severely bruised ribs. It was not as bad as it could have been, though, and he knew they could have done far more. _I have had much worse_ , he thought to himself, knowing he was lucky that these orcs had been more stupid and brutish than cruel and vengeful. He leaned back against the cold, damp wall of the cells, slowly regaining his bearings.

 The orc commander he knew was no stupid brute. There was a sharp, cruel intelligence in his eyes, and Thranduil could not mistake it for anything else. It was sadistic, cold and vicious, and that spoke volumes of what went on here in the depths of Dol Guldur. It was no small wonder that the orcs were attacking with more frequency and more success now; they had a commander who was less vicious and more cunning, and it was clear that he had a plan. What it was, though, Thranduil could only guess.

 But what unnerved him was not the cold, calculating eye of the tall orc, nor the threat of torture if he did not tell them what they wanted to hear. It was the evil that seemed to crawl in this place like a disease, clinging to every stone like a damp mold and permeating the air with its thick, crawling darkness. There had always been an aura of evil about Dol Guldur since the rise of the shadow, but here it was powerful, nearly suffocating, and it chilled even the Elvenking. He had known the shadow of Mordor grew with every season that passed, but for its presence to be so powerful this far north… It was alarming at the least, damning at the most.

 And then there was his most pressing issue: being trapped in the dark fortress teeming with orcs, helpless until he could find a way out. And that was seeming more and more unlikely as time passed; the orcs had locked him in the deepest dungeon in Dol Guldur, and their commander had a sadistic streak and a deep grudge against elves. Thranduil had no way of knowing if the rest of Mirkwood was aware of what had happened yet, and that was frustrating in itself, though he reasoned that a patrol would come upon the scene of the ambush eventually and put the pieces together. However, he hoped he would be able to formulate an escape by then, and perhaps put an end to the sadistic orc captain before returning home. It would be nothing short of suicide to attack the fortress of Dol Guldur, and he knew that was what Legolas would do as soon as he got wind of it. Thranduil knew his son well, and he knew that the Prince was still reckless despite his skill in battle.

 But skill in battle would not be enough to win a fight that was doomed from the start, and Thranduil worried that Legolas would be too stubborn to see that. He sighed, tucking a loose lock of silver-blond hair behind his ear. _Do not be hasty,_ ion nin, _I beg you_.

 It was nearly impossible to tell the passage of time in the heavy, almost oppressive darkness of the cell, and Thranduil could only sit and stare into it, often wondering if his eyes were open or closed, for it made no difference in such pitch blackness. Even his keen elven sight could not penetrate the depths of the opaque shadow cast over the whole of Dol Guldur. It was maddening, and with nothing to see or hear except the darkness and silence of a tomb, it was beginning to fray the elf king’s nerves a bit. He shifted restlessly, the cold iron shackles on his wrists clinking together quietly in the dark. He had never seen such darkness before, not even in the blackest of moonless nights, and he could not deny that it unnerved him. If the shadow had truly reached this far, then Mirkwood was in far greater danger than anyone could have imagined.

 After what felt as though it could have been an eternity, Thranduil heard footsteps nearby, heavy orc footsteps. He listened intently, immediately shaking off the drowsiness that came with darkness, though the echo made it impossible to distinguish their voices. He could only wonder what they wanted now, though he could make a fairly solid conjecture. The orcs’ voices were low and indistinct even as they approached with a low-burning lantern, which was a small relief from the oppressive darkness of the cell.

 “Don’t try nothin’, elf-scum,” one of the guards said in a throaty rumble as he unlocked the cell, coming in and pulling Thranduil roughly to his feet.

 Thranduil did not give him the satisfaction of a reply, keeping his expression calmly neutral as he was led out of the cell. Briefly he wondered if he could steal a knife from the guard’s belt and take them by surprise, but his chances were slim, especially with his wrists still shackled and the fact that he was badly outnumbered. An escape attempt would have to wait until they were at least above ground, he reasoned. He was slightly amused that the smallest orc of the group kept a spear prodding his back the whole way, as if he were a dragon that might suddenly spit fire. It was good to know that they still thought him dangerous, though; he could use it against them if the opportunity presented itself.

 After ascending a steep flight of stone stairs, the orcs brought him to a set of broad double doors, made of thick, heavy timber that was half-rotted with damp and mold. The largest orc pounded his mailed fist against the door, and it creaked open on its own. “Captain, we’ve brought the prisoner,” he growled, shoving Thranduil into the room first.

 Dagok’s flat, pockmarked face twisted into a smirk. “Good. Wait outside while I deal with him.” Even as he gave the order, his yellow eyes never left Thranduil, who stared back with a cold, impassive expression.

 Once they were left alone, the orc captain rose to his feet, walking closer to stand over the elf king with a certain smugness, his towering height a clear advantage.

 While he was hardly short himself, Thranduil could not help but feel small next to the sheer bulk of the orc captain’s frame, though he glared stoically upwards at him. He remained silent, refusing to be intimidated.

 “Have you nothing to say, woodland sprite?” Dagok grinned, dragging a claw across Thranduil’s cheek.

 “I do not answer to your kind,” replied the Elvenking, his tone icy.

 A harsh laugh came from Dagok, black lips stretched over his gums in a too-wide grin. “You will, if you know what is in your best interest,” he chuckled, trailing his black claw down to the hollow of the elf’s throat.

 Thranduil did not flinch. “You are mad if you think I will tell you a word of my kingdom’s secrets.”

 The light of the tallow candles on the desk reflected in Dagok’s gleaming eyes, like the gaze of a wolf. A rabid one, most likely. “Are you quite sure?” grinned the orc, walking in slow circles around Thranduil, the shadows clinging to him like a predatory aura. “It would be most unwise to refuse me.”

 Thranduil held back a sneering comment at that. It would do more harm than good in such a precarious situation. “I will tell you nothing,” he replied calmly, his expression kept carefully neutral. Immediately he could sense the change in Dagok’s demeanor, from predatorily playful to sadistically gleeful, and it was enough to make his skin prickle with gooseflesh.

 The orc let out a low chuckle, his voice like the growl of a warg in Thranduil’s ear. “Very well. Then we shall have to do this my way.” He turned to the door, where the five guards were waiting outside. “Guards!” he barked, and the five were immediately present. “Take him to the landing, and tell the troops to gather there as well.”

 Giving a low grunt of acknowledgement, three of the orcs split off, while the other two seized Thranduil roughly by the arms and dragged him with them. The journey was not a long one, since the crumbling walls of Dol Guldur allowed them to simply skip the winding corridors and passageways. Once outside, Thranduil glanced around surreptitiously, hoping to spot a way he could make a possible escape, but the mist surrounding the whole of the fortress made it nearly impossible to gauge distance or depth.

 As he was led down the stairs to the broad, open stone landing, he could see a massive congregation of orcs, surprisingly far more than he had anticipated, and they were all standing in a loose semicircle near the face of the rock cliff. They all burst into shrieks and jeers at the sight of the elf, and he could hear the bloodlust in their tone, thick like the stink of orc in the air.

 It was not often that Thranduil Oropherion was intimidated, especially in the presence of orcs, but being weaponless and at the mercy of his bloodthirsty captors could do the trick. He could not restrain the sharp gasp that left him when he felt his tunic suddenly torn open from the back, slit by a curved orcish knife before the garment was yanked off, leaving him bare from the waist up in the coolness of the mist. He glared at the one who had torn the fabric so roughly, though it was rendered ineffective as he was forced to his knees the next moment, his arms yanked above his head as his wrists were shackled once more to a stone column.

 He could not deny that he was nervous now, his bare back exposed to the crowd of orcs as they shouted and jeered in violent excitement. Thranduil strained to glance over his shoulder, seeing the crowd part to let their captain through, and he felt his blood run cold at the sadistic gleam in Dagok’s eyes. If the orc commander was looking so smug, then it was certain that things did not bode well.

 The crowd of orcs was repeating a singular phrase over and over like a rhythmic chant, and though Thranduil did not understand the harsh, guttural sounds, he knew their enthusiasm boded ill for him. He turned his head back, unable to look any longer as his neck began to ache. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what would happen next, anyway.

 Suddenly the chanting died away at a word from Dagok, and the tall orc strode forward with a grin, uncurling the long leather whip he held coiled like a black snake around his arm. The tough braided leather hit the stone with a weighty _thwap_ , and Dagok took immense satisfaction in seeing the elf’s back muscles tense. He let out a low chuckle, raising his arm and cracking the whip just to let Thranduil hear its fearsome strike. To his credit, the elf did not flinch, only keeping tense, though this only made Dagok laugh again.

 “You hear that, elf-scum?” grinned the tall orc, raising his voice loud enough so that the crowd could hear, and they cheered with raucous roars and growls. “You know what this is.” He cracked the whip again, nearer to Thranduil’s ear this time to make him flinch, though the elf stubbornly refused.

 Hearing the roaring enthusiasm of the orc crowd only made Thranduil’s body burn in humiliation; being subjected to such public torment was reserved for criminals and traitors, and he was somewhat grateful that his long blond hair hid his face. He did not speak, knowing that it would be both useless and unnecessary. He grit his teeth, hating how the orc sounded so smug. _How brave he is when his enemy is in chains and outnumbered a hundred to one_ , he thought acidly.

 “You shall suffer for your crimes against us,” rumbled Dagok, brandishing the whip and eliciting another roar from the crowd. “And you shall suffer much. Death is too good for you, elf-king.” It was a convenient excuse, one that would drive his warriors into a frenzy and serve his own purpose as well. Torture, the orc commander had discovered, was most effective with an audience.

 There was a cacophonous clamor of growls and shrieks and roars at that, nearly drowning out the crack of the whip and Dagok’s grating laughter. Thranduil tried to shut his ears to the noise, steeling his nerves and bracing himself for what was to come—if he could endure that, then that would be enough. So long as he kept silent, Dagok would eventually grow bored.

 The first strike hit with a force that stole Thranduil’s breath, and he could not help but gasp in pain; the whip felt like a white-hot blade being dragged across his back, lengthwise from shoulder to hip. He immediately set his jaw, resolved not to make another sound, even as the orcs roared at the sight of his pain and the blood that was more than likely running down the welt on his back.

 Dagok roared with laughter and grinned. “That was only a taste of what is to come!” he crowed, sadistically enthusiastic. He looked back at the crowd, raising the whip once more. “Let us see how many strokes of the Dragon’s Tongue he can stand!”

 The orcs shrieked and roared again, and Thranduil tried to block them out, even as the second stroke of the whip fell upon his back, crossing the first welt with another and sending fiery pain lancing through him again. He bit his tongue to hold back any sound, retreating into his own mind and hoping to the Valar that shock would numb him soon. The whip was heavy, biting into his skin and ripping a fresh slice in his back each time it landed, the braided leather rough and merciless. And Dagok’s arm did not seem to tire; in fact, he seemed to become more enthusiastic as time went on, each stroke of the whip harsher than the last.

 By the count of twenty lashes, Thranduil’s back was bloody, though he remained steadfastly silent by the force of his own will. He refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

 By fifty, he was trembling with every stroke of the whip, the force enough to knock the wind out of him if he failed to tense up. The roars of the orc crowd were distant to his ears now, his vision hazy and his arms numb from being bound in such a position.

 By eighty, he felt as though he was suffocating, his panting breaths harsh and gasping, and his body was covered in a sheen of sweat, shaking from the sheer, overwhelming agony each time the whip licked his raw flesh like a tongue of flame 

By a hundred, he was numb to everything but pain, his mind swimming in a haze of nothing but agony, thick and choking and red. Thranduil fought to keep his wits about him, struggling to keep his mental clarity despite the overwhelming fog of pain that seemed to consume him like a fire. He had the strength and the presence of mind to keep from crying out, holding on to his singular goal even as he felt pain wash over him like a tide.

By a hundred-fifty, the world had seemingly narrowed to the sound of his own breath in his ears, the vicious strike of the whip, and the blackness slowly creeping into his vision, overwhelming and dark. Thranduil welcomed unconsciousness, wishing that the blissful darkness would have taken him sooner if it meant a respite from the agony that made him feel as though his flesh had been set aflame. His body sagging limp in the chains, he didn’t fight the dizzying blackness sinking over him like a heavy blanket, and he hardly reacted to the last searing strike of the whip, for it sent him tumbling over the edge of unconsciousness, finally. 

Dagok grinned in triumph once he saw Thranduil’s body go limp in the chains, his back raw and bloody. He turned to the raving crowd of orcs, holding up the bloodstained whip with a feral grin. “See?! The elf-scum is not so strong!” he called out, and the mass of orcs roared in agreement, the sound thunderous enough to shake the walls of Dol Guldur itself. His grin was one of victory rather than thirst for blood, for he had killed two birds with one stone: dealt a very satisfying blow to the Elvenking’s pride, and driven his army to a frothing bloodlust so that they would be eager to spill more elven blood. There was nothing sweeter than spilling the blood of the Firstborn, and soon they would be bathed in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter two! I was going to include more with a bit about Legolas, but this got very long very quickly, so I decided to cut it off at this point. But it'll be included next chapter! Any comments are always appreciated ^^
> 
> I should also mention that the title comes from a poem by Dylan Thomas. It's one of my favorite poems, and it inspired me to write this story in the first place. Thanks for reading!


	3. Shadows of the Mind

_~3~_

_Shadows of the Mind_

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A blanket of muted tension had settled over the elven stronghold since Legolas’ and Lainathiel’s return, and though everyone the two met kept a veneer of calm, the worry in the air was almost palpable. Legolas had first told Raenor privately, and the usually solemn-faced captain of the guard showed a rare moment of shock when he heard the news. Immediately he had dispatched a patrol to the scene, led by Lainathiel since she already knew exactly where to go.

Legolas had been agitated that he could not join the patrol as well, but Raenor had reminded him that while the king was away, it was the duty of the Prince to rule the kingdom. And as the Prince, Legolas’ safety was imperative, especially considering the situation at hand. As much as he disliked that fact, it was a necessary evil.

Legolas sighed and sank into the chair at his desk, his head pillowed in his hands. It was terribly frustrating to be stuck inside the palace while his fellow warriors were out actively contributing to their cause. “Is this how it feels to be a king, _adar_?” he murmured to himself, shutting his eyes for a moment. “…I do not like it.” He was quickly gaining a newfound respect for his father’s patience with such matters; all this _waiting_ and doing _nothing_ was absolutely maddening 

He was sure most of Mirkwood knew what had happened by now, or at least the guard did; they had dispatched multiple patrols to track the orcs who had fled the scene, after all. Legolas wasn’t sure, however, if that was a good thing or not. He didn’t want the story to be sensationalized as it traveled down the grapevine of gossip, and if that happened it would cause nothing but strife. _And that is the last thing we need_ , thought the Prince, his mind weary. It had only been an hour since he and Lainathiel had returned, but to Legolas it seemed like much longer. He had tried to focus on the tedious duties of trade agreements and royal correspondence, but his mind would not stay on the letters and the dull subjects they described for more than a few minutes.

His thoughts always drifted back to the forest and the horrific scene he and Lainathiel had stumbled upon, and the gut-twisting dread that had clutched him in the moment he realized his father was mysteriously missing. When the words had fallen from Saeldhur’s bloodied lips in a weak whisper, he had been overwhelmed by a feeling of sick, nauseating horror, for he knew the viciousness of orcs himself. It was not their way to take prisoners; they preferred to kill and conquer. That meant that whomever was behind such an ambush-- and it was indeed an ambush, for who could have known that the king would depart that very day for Lorien?—was someone who held only terrible ill will toward the elves of Mirkwood.

 If it was ransom they were looking for, they could have it easily. It was no secret that the treasure hoards of the Elvenking were legendary. But Legolas’ instincts told him it was not gold or jewels these orcs were after, but something much more precious. What it could be, he did not yet know.

Legolas glanced up suddenly as he heard a knock on the door, pushing the papers aside. “Enter,” he called, and the door opened a second later to admit the captain of the guard.

Raenor’s expression was grave, and Legolas knew that could only mean dark tidings. “We have retrieved the bodies of the dead, my Prince,” he said solemnly, his grey eyes stormier than usual. “And a patrol tracks the path of the attackers as we speak.”

 “That is a small comfort,” murmured Legolas, letting out a long breath he hardly knew he’d been holding. He glanced up at Raenor. “Was there any sign of them? The _yrch_ who ambushed them?”

 Raenor gave a brief shake of his head. “I am afraid not,” he admitted. “All we could find were arrows, horse prints, and broken underbrush. However, the trail seems to continue south, and I left Alassien to lead one patrol to follow it while the rest returned here to report.”

 

Legolas nodded after a moment, his face still darkened by a worried frown. He had to accept, however, that his people were doing the best they could. _I only wish I could be helping them_ , he thought, feeling a restless guilt stir within him as he rubbed his temples.

 Uncannily perceptive as he was, Raenor picked up on the Prince’s frustration and anxiety. “We all do what we can, as best we can, Prince Legolas,” he said, not unkindly, his eyes sympathetic. “You are doing your part, and no one can fault you for that.”

 Legolas sighed, looking up at Raenor with sudden uncertainty. “Am I doing it well?” he asked, feeling like he needed some kind of reassurance that he was at least not making the situation worse. He paused a moment. “As my father would do?”

Raenor could not help but smile a bit. “I believe that King Thranduil would be far more frantic than you are now, had your positions been switched.”

Legolas was surprised to hear that. “Truly?” he queried, both curious and confused. Thranduil seemed always calm and composed even in the most dire of situations, from Legolas’ own experience 

Raenor’s eyes glimmered momentarily with something akin to amusement, but it was gone a second later. “You are the only kin he has left in this world, my Prince,” replied the older elf gently. “His only child. He would do anything to protect you.”

There was a moment of silence after that as Legolas absorbed those words, and he felt a small pang in his heart. “…and he is my only kin as well.” The thought hit much harder when he thought of it now, in the wake of what had happened, and the dreaded thought flickered through Legolas’ mind: it was possible he would never see his father again. The thought horrified him, and he shoved it away immediately, consigning it to the deepest corners of his mind, but… the possibility still lingered.

“Do not worry yourself so much, Legolas.” Raenor’s gentle voice interrupted his anxious thoughts, his tone that of a sympathetic friend rather than a captain of the guard. He placed a comforting hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “King Thranduil is alive. It would make no sense, even for orcs, to kill such a valuable hostage.”

Legolas nodded after a moment, comforted slightly by the logic. “I can only wonder how they did it,” he said quietly, looking down. “We sent our best archers with him… And my father is far from helpless. He is better with a blade than most elves I know.”

“We still do not know,” Raenor admitted with a sigh. “This comes as a shock to us all. Never before have orcs attempted something so brazen.”

“Never before have they succeeded, either,” Legolas commented quietly from his seat, his hands folded with his chin resting on top. He glanced up at Raenor. “I do not understand it. Why now of all times? They could have killed far more by attacking the _ellith_ who gather herbs nearby. They have never been creatures of great strategy.”

“It is a peculiar thing,” Raenor agreed, his grey eyes meeting Legolas’ blue. “But it does not matter now. We must take what we are given and make what we can of it.”

Legolas sighed, his heart weighing heavy in his chest. “You speak the truth,” he admitted. “But I cannot help but wonder. It does not sit well with me that such things would happen with no warning, no sign of such a terrible plot. Not even the trees spoke of the presence of orcs.”

 “Not even the forest can foretell the future, Prince Legolas,” said Raenor, not unkindly, though Legolas did not get a chance to even acknowledge the remark. 

There was another urgent knock on the door suddenly, and Legolas glanced at it with a frown. He clearly remembered saying to the guards outside that he did not want to be disturbed. But the matter had to be something pressing if it was being brought to his attention anyway, he reasoned. “Enter!”

A flustered-looking elf hurried into the room, looking somewhat frantic. “Prince Legolas, there are dwarf emissaries here to see you,” he said quickly. “From Erebor. Well, they are here to see King Thranduil, but…”

Legolas was confused for a moment. He had received no notice of an appointment to meet with dwarves, nor had his father informed him of any such meeting. “From Erebor?” he repeated. “What for?”

“I do not know, my Prince,” the elf replied awkwardly. “But they refuse to leave without being acknowledged, and they are causing quite a ruckus outside.”

Legolas felt a vague flicker of irritation. Dwarves were such rowdy and boorish creatures, and he did not appreciate the rudeness of them barging into the elven stronghold with no prior notice. “I will see them,” he said finally, slightly reluctant to do so, but not wanting to further any enmity between their two kingdoms. Which was surely what it would come to, if dwarves were involved. He stood from his desk and motioned for the page to lead the way 

The elf gave a quick nod and exited the room, Legolas and Raenor following as they neared the main gates of the palace. As expected, a band of hirsuit, angry dwarves were waiting for them, their voices loud enough to wake the trees, who clearly did not appreciate such clamor. Legolas smoothed his expression into a neutral calmness, remembering his diplomatic manners despite his… guests’ rudeness. 

He approached them with his posture tall yet fluid, the inherent grace of an elf, and looked down at them. “Is there something that troubles you?” he asked simply, keeping all traces of irritation absent from his tone.

 “Damned right there is!” the leader of the bunch growled from underneath his massive, bushy beard, his eyebrows crawling like angry caterpillars over his eyes. “Where’s that blasted king o’ yours? That miserly son of a dragon has cheated me!! The kingdom of Thror will not stand for such an insult!”

 Legolas prickled at the words, his expression turning cold. “You will show King Thranduil due respect when you are standing in his stronghold,” he said sharply, a bit more so than he had intended. “Be careful of what you say, dwarf. My king would not cheat even one such as you.”

 The other dwarves looked outraged, but the icy look in Legolas’ eyes made them less eager to argue. “I have a dispute with your king,” their leader growled, reluctantly more calm. “My name is Balon, son of Talon. He will remember me.”

 Legolas kept his expression cool and impassive. “Even if that is true, you have wasted your time,” he replied calmly.

 Balon spluttered, clearly livid, but Legolas held up a hand to silence him.

 “King Thranduil is not here,” Legolas continued, his face betraying nothing. “He is away on a diplomatic errand. And I, the Prince, rule Mirkwood in his stead.” He had to hold back a smirk at seeing Balon’s face pale as the dwarf realized whom he had been so rudely barking at.

 “I… I did not realize,” Balon muttered awkwardly. “When will the king return?”

“In a fortnight,” replied Legolas smoothly. “Though it could be longer, depending on the state of affairs in Lorien. I advise that you and your companions travel home for the time being. I will send a few of my archers to escort you to the border of the forest.

“There will be no need,” Balon said gruffly. “I will settle this with you.”

Surprise flickered across Legolas’ face, though only momentarily. “I cannot speak for King Thranduil in such a personal—“

“You’re doing his job, are ye not?” interrupted the dwarf in his gravelly voice, looking up at him with a critical eye. “It is no personal matter. Any creature, elf or dwarf or man, could see the truth, plain as day.”

Legolas was silent for only a heartbeat, though he knew he was pinned. He could not back down and seem like a weak and indecisive ruler in front of the dwarf. To do so would be an embarrassment, and he knew that the dwarves would not let him forget it. “Very well,” he said finally, a calm concession. “You may follow me to my office, Master Balon, and we will discuss this matter further.”

He still wasn’t sure exactly what this was even about as he led the irate dwarf into the stone halls of the palace, attempting to think of something that would placate the dwarf as quickly as possible. The elves of Mirkwood were in the midst of a bit of a crisis; they hardly had time for Dwarvish nonsense. But dwarves were notoriously stubborn creatures, and Legolas had not the time nor the patience for such an argument. The Prince sat down at his desk and faced the bushy-bearded dwarf with a cool expression, trying to seem serene and calm rather than impatient. “What is your quarrel with my father, Master Dwarf?" 

“It is no mere quarrel,” growled Balon. “He has cheated me!”

 Legolas held back a sharp retort, biting his tongue. “You must be more specific,” he replied, slightly annoyed. “I am not a mind-reader. If you are looking for one, I suggest you speak to Lady Galadriel.”

 The dwarf did not seem amused, and he scoffed. “We had a deal, he and I did,” he began, impatient and angry. “I forged a shirt of mithril for his son, only a child then, and he never gave me proper recompense!”

 Legolas frowned. He did not remember wearing a shirt of mithril as a child. The story seemed out of place, and especially out of character for his father. “I know of no such garment,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. “Where is it now?”

 “How should I know?” Balon grumbled. “It was taken from my hands and never seen again!”

 Legolas looked at the dwarf for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I do not believe you speak the truth, Master Dwarf. Not of any part of this story.”

Balon looked immediately affronted. “You accuse me of lying?!” he blustered. “This is an outrage!”  
  
Legolas suddenly stood, towering over the dwarf with a gaze cold like ice. “You have insulted me and my father, as well as our kingdom,” he said coldly. “I will not stand for your lies any longer. Now you will tell me what your true purpose is here.”

“You elves think you are untouchable,” the dwarf spat, his hand going for his axe, but Legolas was too quick for that.

In a flash of rage, he pinned the dwarf against the wall by the throat, a strike as quick and deadly as a snake. “Tell me the truth or I will not hesitate to kill you,” he said in a low, threatening tone. “I have more than reason enough." 

Balon made a choking noise, his legs flailing as he was suspended several feet off the ground. “The shadow… grows close to your lands…!” he gasped, fingers clawing at Legolas’ hand. “Thror… was suspicious that it had corrupted your king as well…!” 

Seeing the desperation in the dwarf’s eyes, Legolas dropped him, believing that this was indeed the truth. He glared at the bearded dwarf coughing and wheezing on the floor before him. “Then why come here to Mirkwood with accusations and lies?” he asked sharply. “Is there reason to sow enmity where there is none?”

 Balon coughed, still massaging his throat. “I could not come and ask if the king had the shadow in his heart,” he muttered hoarsely. “The story was a test. And though I know not of your father, you are yet free of its touch.”

 “I did not need your lies to know that,” Legolas replied cuttingly, his gaze still cold. “What business of yours is it anyhow? We do not need a dwarf butting his bulbous nose into the business of our own kingdom.” He hadn’t meant to be so venomous, but the very idea that anyone would be so brazen as to walk into the Elvenking’s halls and spout lies for their own purpose was appalling. Appalling to think that any elf would fall for it, that was. It was downright insulting, and while Legolas could handle personal insult, any insult to his people or to his father would not be tolerated. 

“’Twas nothing personal, my lord elf,” Balon said after clearing his throat, still avoiding Legolas’ gaze. “The safety of our two kingdoms is on my mind just as it is yours.”

Legolas let out a sigh, both frustrated and exasperated. This business of being in charge of the kingdom was getting to be quite tiresome, and he had started to wonder how Thranduil did it every day without going utterly mad. “I have more important matters to attend to than your nosiness, Master Dwarf,” he said finally. “Leave now and we will not speak of this again.”

Balon rose awkwardly to his feet, clearing his throat. “Very well then,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “My company and I shall be on my way.”

“Good,” replied Legolas absentmindedly, already distracted as he sifted through the papers on his desk. “May your journey back to Erebor be a safe one.”

 Balon gave a nod and exited the room, where a pair of guards was waiting to escort him to the gates. As soon as the dwarf had gone, Legolas let out a quiet groan and buried his face in his hands, shoulders slumping as he sat down. _First orcs, then dwarves, and now what?_

 Another knock on the door came through, and Legolas had half a mind to pretend he simply was not there. “Is there no end to this nonsense today?” he muttered to himself. After a moment he lifted his head and called wearily, “Enter!”

 The Prince could not help but be relieved when he saw it was only Lainathiel, and no one else to bother him with some problem or task. He smiled in relief as the elleth came into the room, beckoning her forth. “You do not know how good it is to see someone whom I can speak frankly to,” he chuckled.

 Lainathiel gave a wry smile at that, sitting down in front of him. “You will not appreciate it so much when I give you the news,” she replied, her gaze both tired and sympathetic. When Legolas only stared at her with a worried frown, she continued. “We tracked the orc trail through the woods. You can guess where it led.” 

Legolas felt his heart sink, heavy like a lead weight in his chest. “No… They have returned to that foul place?" 

“’Tis true, my Prince,” Lainathiel affirmed quietly, her gaze downcast. “They have taken the king to Dol Guldur. What they plan there, I do not know.”

Legolas rested his head in his hands for a moment, trying to keep away the sick dread tightening its black fingers around his heart. He had known somewhere in his heart of hearts that it would come to this, but he had clung to the hope that maybe it would not be true, though those hopes were nothing more than wishful thinking at present. Now it seemed that nosy dwarves were the least of his worries. “…I do not know what to do,” he admitted quietly. The cost in blood spilt and lives lost would be far too great if they were to storm the fortress, not to mention what evil they might find there. To treat with orcs was dangerous business, and to trust their word was like trusting the wind in a storm. Legolas was left with few options, and all of them made him feel sick to his stomach to even consider.

 He looked at Lainathiel, his gaze desperate. “What can I do?”

 Lainathiel looked away, her eyes mournful and solemn. “I do not know, my lord,” she whispered. “I do not know.”

 

~oOo~

.

.

.

 

When Legolas retired to bed that night, his dreams were haunted, visions wreathed in shadow and flame. He tossed and turned but could not awaken, and he dreamed of unspeakable horrors. He dreamed that Mirkwood was burning, the forest all ablaze, the wood elves screaming in grief and children crying as they ran from the flames. Thick, acrid smoke made Legolas’ eyes sting and burn, and he could not shut out the horrific sounds of the crackling flames and the screams of his people. The trees too were screaming, their agony an overwhelming cry as they were consumed by the greedy flames, burning and burning and dying all around…

It was too much, and Legolas fell to his knees in the dream, crying out alongside them as the world pulsed red with the pain and horror of an entire people. The thick, choking smoke and overwhelming heat were only getting thicker, and the stink of charred flesh was in the air now too, the sizzling, crackling of fallen trees and elves alike.

Legolas forced his teary eyes open, watching a horse run past with its mane and coat ablaze, whinnying a shrill scream of agony. There were elves still running, tears streaking their ash-stained faces as they tried to escape the flames. _No…! This cannot be…_ The Prince could only watch in horror, the heat and smoke like a suffocating cloud around him, and he coughed violently, throat too hoarse to scream.

He stumbled to his feet, the heat of the flames too great to bear any longer, and tried to run, but a shrill scream stopped him in his tracks. He saw his mother, her face contorted in agony only yards from him. He had not seen his mother’s face since he was an elfling, but he remembered it only all too clearly now, and his heart gave a terrible lurch. _Nana…!_ He wanted to scream, but his throat was too raw, and instead he ran toward her, his arm desperately outstretched.

 But she only seemed to get further away as he ran, and she screamed as the flames engulfed her, a horrible high sound of agony, ringing in Legolas’ ears as he jolted awake suddenly in his own bed, shaking and in a cold sweat.

 Legolas panted hard, eyes still wide with horror and pain, his whole body trembling. He sat up in bed, burying his face in his hands. Slowly he realized it had only been a dream, yet somehow that made it no less chilling. “Ai, Elbereth…” he whispered into his shaking hands. The dream had felt far too real.

 The Prince swallowed hard, finding his throat dry. What was happening to him? He had not had such night terrors since he was an elfling… He had been under duress as of late, but nothing else had—

Legolas felt his heart sink as he remembered. Of course something had happened. He sighed. Of course he was stressed… There was no one in these lands who would not be, in such a situation. His shoulders sagged, and he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was exhausted after the dream, but the idea of going back to sleep was worse than not.

After a moment Legolas rose from the bed, pulling on a robe with a quiet sigh. It was still dead silent in the Elvenking’s halls, which meant it was still night, or perhaps very early. Too much time to be alone with his nightmares. He did not bother to light a candle as he crossed the room and stood in front of the mirror on the wall, barely able to see his reflection in the darkness. But that may have been for the best; Legolas did not care to see how haunted his gaze looked after the dream. He dipped his hands in the basin of water on the nearby table and splashed it on his face, hoping the cool water would help clear his mind. A quiet sigh escaped him, letting his hands slide from his face, though the water felt nice on his feverish skin. 

“…I only wish you were here, _ada_ ,” he found himself whispering. A small, wry smile came to his lips as he thought briefly how that would solve so many of his problems at the moment. “…I cannot do this alone.” His father had always seemed so strong, immovable and impregnable, like a great oak that could weather any storm. Thranduil had been a solid, reassuring presence in Legolas’ life, a constant that was never questioned, and after the death of his mother… He had clung to that presence so tightly once. How had he come to resent it so?

And now… Legolas felt a pang in his heart as he remembered his last words to his father. They had been arguing, and how terribly foolish it seemed now… _What a fool I was,_ thought the Prince, staring at the edge of the mirror, avoiding the gaze of his own reflection. _And a fool I am still._

Legolas felt helpless. His hands were tied. He knew for almost certain that his father was in Dol Guldur, yet there was next to nothing that could be done, short of storming the fortress. And to risk such an assault would mean much blood spilt, much elvish blood. The place was evil, all the wood elves knew, and they did their best to avoid it when they could. Strange, dark things happened there, and recently a horde of orcs had taken up residence in its crumbling halls; fires could be seen on the ramparts at night, and orc attacks were becoming more frequent along the forest paths.

Legolas did not know what they wanted with the Elvenking, and none of the usual suspect crimes seemed to fit. Ransom was too obvious, and they would not have attempted such a daring move simply for gold. Leverage for bargaining was a possibility, but for what? The wood elves held no prisoners of theirs. 

He sighed. It was far too early to be thinking of such things, unless one had the power of foresight… Legolas suddenly stiffened, eyes wide. _Foresight…_ of course! _I will have to speak to Lainathiel in the morning_ , he vowed silently. _I must get a message to Lord Elrond._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here the plot begins to take off! I hope you all enjoyed it! Next week's chapter will be far more... grim. And once again, thank you for reading if you've come this far. Oh, and just as a note, Balon is an OC and bears no relation to Balin, Lord of Moria.
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the positive feedback so far! I'm so happy that people are enjoying this story, and I love reading your reactions and comments. And a note about Tauriel: no, she will not appear in this story. She was a movie-only character, and I wasn't a fan of how her character was done overall (the love triangle story was trite and tiresome imo). So, until next Monday!


	4. Elvish Blood

_~4~_

_Elvish Blood_

_._

_._

_._

It was said that elves did not feel the cold as easily as other races, for they were stronger and hardier than most. But in the depths of Dol Guldur, Thranduil shivered faintly with cold, the black stone leeching away his body’s warmth no matter how feverish he felt. He trembled with exhaustion and pain, though he remained steadfast in his refusal of his captor’s demands. Nothing would be worth betraying his people; those orcs could wait a thousand years, and his mind still would not change. But all the same, Thranduil had not slept more than an hour or two in what felt like a very long time, kept awake by the orcs’ racket and the constant pain that wracked his body at the slightest movement.

 

He had been in and out of consciousness for a while, weak with blood loss from the brutal flogging and the pain that followed. He could not lie on his back or his stomach, since either of those positions made his wounds twinge with searing pain all over again, so curling up gingerly on his side was the only way he could get any respite. And despite the fact that he was utterly exhausted, his body ached too fiercely for him to sleep, his ribs twingeing each time he took a deep breath and his wrists raw and bleeding from the shackles. He tried not to think of what his back looked like at this point; the sharp, searing pain each time he moved was more than enough of a reminder in itself.

 

The cold, dark dampness of the cell sapped what little strength Thranduil had left, and it was all he could do to simply lie there and try to conserve the little warmth that his body produced. Though he kept his wits about him, even if he was exhausted, listening intently for the sound of the orcs outside the cell or anything that wasn’t the slow, monotonous dripping of water from the ceiling into a puddle in the corner. He didn’t know how many hours or days it had been since the flogging; the shock and blood loss had left him in a stupor for a good while afterwards, and he had hardly been conscious of time at that point.

 

But he refused to let them think they had broken him already, and though he feigned sleep whenever the guards came by to make their racket and taunt him, he never flinched nor looked away when their commander came to ask him questions he would not answer. They were always the same questions, asking where was the armory and what was the schedule of the forest patrols, asking how many elves guarded the forest path. All of them Thranduil would give no answer to, knowing that anything he said would be used to facilitate the killing of his own people. This frustrated the orc captain, and that gave Thranduil a small measure of satisfaction. If they thought it would be easy to force anything from the Elvenking, they were dead wrong.

 

Thranduil sat up when he heard the sound of the orc commander’s heavy footsteps, knowing what the sound meant. He had quickly learned to recognize the orcs by their gait and the sound of their boots on the stone floor, so that even if he couldn’t see them in the flickering torchlight from outside the cell, he knew what to be prepared for. The Elvenking’s wounds gave a painful twinge when he moved, but he ignored it, sitting up straight and combing his fingers through his long hair. It wouldn’t do to look ragged and dirty even in the presence of his captor; Thranduil still had his pride, after all.

 

But today something was different about Dagok’s footsteps as he came to the cell and opened the door with a creak, and it gave Thranduil an inkling of suspicion. His gait was purposeful, even excited, and that couldn’t mean anything good. If only he had the power of foresight like a certain lord of Imladris, thought the elf king grimly. But he kept his expression neutral as Dagok entered with a gleam in his yellow eyes that was reminiscent of a Mirkwood spider closing in on an animal caught in its web.

 

“If you have come to ask me your questions again, my answers are the same,” said Thranduil calmly, his expression betraying none of the tension he felt within.

 

Dagok chuckled at that, the sound harsh and grating. “Not today,” he replied in a low tone. “Today I thought we might introduce you to someone else.” Before Thranduil could even answer, he grabbed the elf’s arm and yanked him to his feet, leading him out of the cell and shoving him toward a group of guards.

 

“Restrain him in my study,” Dagok ordered as he turned away, already disappearing around the corner with the ghost of a grin on his pockmarked face, and Thranduil knew that it couldn’t mean anything good.

 

The five orcs were quick to obey, wrenching Thranduil’s arms behind his back after unlocking the shackles, causing the elf to stiffen in pain at the rough handling. He betrayed nothing in his expression, though the pain of his wounds was still great. It sent a burning pain through most of his back just to move the muscles there or shift his shoulders, but Thranduil refused to show it, keeping his demeanor cool and collected as he was led none too gently to another room around the corner and up a flight of crumbling stone stairs.

 

Thranduil had been intent on keeping as calm and silent as he could, simply to infuriate his captors, but nothing could have prepared him for what he would see within the room. The rotting wooden door was opened, and the guards shoved him inside with a push to his back that sent fiery pain shooting through his still-raw wounds, but the pain hardly registered in his mind. He stared, his face incredulous as he looked toward Dagok, who was grinning like the damned fiend he was.

 

The elf on the floor was bound and blindfolded so that he could not see what was going on, but it was clear that he was afraid, his body tense and his breaths shuddering. He was battered and bloody, obvious marks of his captivity with the orcs.

 

Dagok’s grin widened at Thranduil’s shock; it was satisfying to have finally broken that emotionless mask. It would be far easier to coerce him into talking now. “Surprised?” he chuckled in a low, sinister tone. When Thranduil did not answer, he went on. “We thought that perhaps meeting one of your own kind here would help loosen your tongue.”

 

“You are a monster,” Thranduil said after a long moment, his voice low with fury.

 

Dagok laughed. “How observant of you, elf,” he grinned, darkly amused. He paced slowly back and forth, making a predatory circle around Thranduil and the other elf, whose face was enshrouded by shadow. The light was low in the room, and even Thranduil could not tell who it was shackled on the floor before him.

 

The orc captain’s grin was malicious, his eyes gleaming in the low light of the dying fire in the hearth. “I thought that it might do you good to see a friend.” He grabbed hold of the elf by his long dark hair, causing him to cry out in pain, and pulled him to his feet, tearing off the blindfold.

 

Lindir blinked in shock, his vision slowly adjusting, and he stared with wide eyes at the other elf in the room. “My lord Thranduil?” he breathed, both surprised and horrified.

 

Thranduil was equally shocked, though he tried not to let it show. “Lindir… How did you come to be here?” Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this. He was bewildered that Lindir was here of all places, for he had been traveling with Elrond to the meeting of the council, last anyone had heard. It seemed strange that he would be so far south, and on the other side of the Anduin as well.

 

Lindir gave a weak smile. “I was sent to travel with you to Lórien, my lord,” he explained quietly. “Lord Elrond wanted me to deliver a message. I was ambushed on the road, and…” He trailed off, the rest needing no further explanation.

 

Dagok’s low, grating chuckle interrupted them. “I thought you two might know each other,” he said with dark satisfaction. So he had guessed right. He had intended to torture the elf even if he was no friend of the Elvenking, for all elves were kin and cared for each other in some measure, but this made it all the better. He grabbed hold of Lindir by the hair, causing the elf to let out a short cry of pain, and yanked his head back, the tip of a knife playing in the hollow of the elf’s throat. “So, elf-king, will you talk now? Or shall we make this little bird sing for us?”

 

Thranduil tried to ignore the dread clutching at his chest, glaring icily at the orc commander. “You are a coward,” he said coldly. “Let him be. It is my secrets you want, not his. He can tell you nothing.” He did not know Lindir well, for his journeys to Imladris were few, but that hardly mattered. All elves were kin to one another, even the Noldor and the Sindar, and Thranduil would not stand to see another tortured while he did nothing.

 

Dagok’s grin only widened. “Be that as it may,” said the orc, his voice almost a purr as his black-bladed knife slid further down, caressing Lindir’s collarbone. “There is nothing I enjoy half so much as the screams of a pretty elf…”

 

Thranduil tensed, able to only glare at the orc and hope he would drop dead. “Leave him be,” he said in a low tone, as threatening as he could manage while he was bound and held at swordpoint by several orcs.

 

“I will do so when you agree to talk,” Dagok smirked. “But if you will not, then simply watch. And keep in mind that you will be next.” He kindled the fire in the hearth, tossing more wood into it and stoking the embers.

 

“Don’t tell him anything, Thranduil,” Lindir said suddenly, his gaze pleading as he looked to the Elvenking. “It would not be worth the fate of your kingdom.”

 

Thranduil felt his heart give a terrible ache at those words, and he despised his own helplessness as much as the orcs’ cruelty. “ _Goheno nin,”_ he whispered.

 

Lindir only smiled.

 

The orc commander suddenly turned to face them, smirking as the fire in the hearth blazed now, the end of a sword heated red-hot. “Then neither of you will speak?”

 

“No,” said Lindir before Thranduil could think of saying any different. His dark eyes were determined despite the bruises on his face and his pale, drawn complexion. “We have nothing to say to you.”

 

Dagok grinned, eyes glittering. “I hoped you might say that.” He stepped closer to Lindir, who tensed but held his ground, refusing to show overt fear. “But that will change soon enough.” He suddenly grabbed Lindir’s arm and twisted it harshly behind the elf’s back, causing him to cry out in pain.

 

Thranduil snarled and tried to lunge for the orc, enraged that the damned monster was using an innocent elf’s pain as a bargaining tool. There was no honor in this! But he was held back by the five orc guards, who forced him to his knees with a sword at his throat to hold him at bay. He knew they wouldn’t kill him, however; that would defeat the entire purpose of what their sadistic commander was doing.

 

“Is my suffering not enough for you?!” Thranduil spat, masking his helpless sorrow with anger. “Leave him be!”

 

Dagok grinned, twisting Lindir’s arm further and listening to the elf cry out. “That is my point exactly, elf. It is your choice when his suffering ends.”

 

“Don’t listen to him!” Lindir cried out, his gaze urgent as he looked at Thranduil, fighting to keep the pain out of his voice and his expression. “He will kill us both when he gets what he desires from you!”

 

“Silence!” Dagok snarled, and his massive hands gave a jerk that broke Lindir’s arm with a twisting, sickening crunch and dislocated his shoulder in the same second, tearing a scream from the elf despite his determination to remain silent.

 

Thranduil couldn’t help but look away; he couldn’t stand to see the look of such agony on Lindir’s face, and hearing him scream was bad enough. It brought back dark memories, memories of fire and death and the screams of thousands of dying elves, and the last thing he wanted was to remember that. He tried very hard to block it out, as guilty as he felt for doing so, and he hoped he was doing Lindir a favor by disallowing his suffering to affect him so.

 

“You keep your mouth shut unless you’re going to say something useful,” Dagok said in a low, threatening growl, roughly shoving Lindir to his knees. He pulled a small knife from his belt, smirking at Lindir’s frightened expression. “Oh, cheer up. Why the sad face, elfling? You have nothing to be afraid of, if you would only cooperate.”

 

When the dark-haired elf said nothing, Dagok grinned. “Now you’re going to be quiet, hm?” He suddenly seized Lindir by the jaw, tilting his head upwards and slipping the knife into his mouth, the blade poised threateningly against the inside of the elf’s cheek. “Smile, elfling…”

 

“Don’t look, my lord,” Lindir’s voice came pleadingly, tremulously, and Thranduil kept his head down, trying very hard to keep his expression stoic as he felt his stomach do a sickening flip-flop.

 

But the orcs would have none of that, and a nod from their smirking commander gave the order. One of the guards yanked Thranduil’s head back by his hair, keeping a painful hold in the blond locks to force him to watch the whole thing. The Elvenking hissed at the harsh pull on his hair, but he couldn’t struggle in his current position, and his heart lurched at the sight of Dagok throwing Lindir to the ground, where the elf lay sprawled out, clutching at his broken arm.

 

Dagok was grinning as he took the sword from the fire, its end glowing red-hot. He seemed to have changed his mind about the knife and moved straight to something more… effective. “Don’t move, elfling, or you’ll only make this worse for yourself.”

 

The fear in Lindir’s eyes was obvious, but he tried to keep his expression cold, glaring up at the orc. He stayed very still, though, eyes fixed on the glowing hot sword in Dagok’s hand. He knew what was to come, trying to steel his nerves and his resolve. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of breaking him.

 

Thranduil could only watch helplessly as the orc pressed the red-hot blade into Lindir’s skin, watching the other elf writhe and squirm in agony as he tried not to scream. The hiss of searing flesh filled the air, the smell of burned skin and flesh beneath making Thranduil’s stomach turn. Dagok started with Lindir’s chest, trailing the hot, sharp blade across his skin with agonizing slowness to make wounds that cauterized instantly, sealed by the searing blade. They were deep cuts, the sword’s tip cruelly sharp, but they did not bleed for more than a moment as the heat burned them closed.

 

For all his efforts, poor Lindir could not help but scream, his tortured cries bouncing off the walls as the orcs laughed. Whenever Dagok asked if either of them would speak, Lindir’s eyes begged Thranduil to remain silent, and he did. The Elvenking would not betray his people, nor would he make his friend’s suffering worth nothing. But it was terrible to watch, especially when the tall orc grew tired of games.

 

Dagok’s torture was brutal and drawn out. He was deaf to the elf’s horrific screams as he drove the blade through each of Lindir’s palms, agonizingly slow, and the hot sword slid through flesh like a knife through soft butter, shearing muscle and sinew as he twisted with a cruel wrench of his wrist. The orc reheated the sword in the hearth and burned each of Lindir’s fingers until the charred skin peeled away from the bones, and even those he cracked with the hot blade until the marrow gleamed from within.

 

The orc was grinning when he used a curved knife, heated till the blade glowed, to slice into Lindir’s leg, cutting through it with slow, cruel slices until he reached the bone, layers of muscle raggedly carved away. Lindir was sobbing now, crying out to the Valar in broken Elvish to release him from this torment.

 

It all happened as if in a dream as Thranduil watched, horrifically mesmerized by the blood and the blackened, charred flesh of the elf’s body. He slipped into his memories in some moments, flashes of terrified faces and the horrible bright surge of dragonfire before they were all gone, incinerated before his very eyes. The rush of wind from black wings above, a deafening roar and red-glowing eyes endlessly haunted the back of his mind, ghoulish and dark. Dagorlad had never left him, had never left his memory and the scars that lay on his heart from that day three thousand years ago, though the wounds on his soul were as fresh as the day of the battle, as ever they would be.

 

And here he lived it again, caught between memory and reality and both a damnable horror. Both filled with screams and fire and blood. It had gotten so hot that the room felt like a furnace, or perhaps that was just the heat of the blade held threateningly near his ear when Dagok’s low voice rumbled that it wasn’t over, though the voice seemed distant, the pain much more near.

 

The sound of an orc horn blared from outside the fortress, though Thranduil barely heard it in his haze of horrific memories, and the darkness of the fortress itself was cloying. But the orcs heard it well enough, and Dagok snarled when the sound reached his ears, tossing away the bloodied blade in his hand. It seemed he would have to attend to other duties before he could finish this.

 

He strode to the door, scowling with blood on his hands. “Leave them,” he ordered the guards in a growl, shoving Thranduil to the floor beside Lindir, and neither elf reacted, too stunned to do so. “Lock the door. They aren’t going anywhere.”

 

Dagok opened the heavy, rotted timber door and swiftly exited, barking orders even as his guards scurried out behind him. The last and smallest orc shut the door behind him, the heavy lock clicking into place with a creak, and that left the two elves alone in their numb shock.

 

Lindir wheezed quietly, his breaths weak and shallow with pain, and he simply lay on the stone floor, in too much agony to move. His body was covered in lacerations and hideous burns, and his hands were mutilated almost beyond recognition, along with sections of his upper leg and chest. “ _Mellon nin…_ ” he whispered. “Come closer… Please…”

 

For a moment the words did not even register in Thranduil’s mind as he lay on the stone floor, trembling with shock. Slowly he regained some of his wits, though, and  he had the sense to slowly sit up, the ropes around his wrist slick enough with his own blood that he could slide out of them. He slid a bit closer to Lindir, staring numbly at the elf’s mutilated body, eyes wide like a deer caught in the gaze of an archer. He could do nothing but stare mutely, for no words would come, no matter how hard he tried to force them.

 

Lindir looked up at Thranduil with dark eyes glazed with pain and shock, his throat muscles working as he gasped for breath. He was scared, that much the Elvenking could see, scared as an animal is when its throat is slashed and its lifeblood pouring out in hot pulses. He was dying, quick enough that he would have not the time to fade, but slow enough that it would be agony. “P-please…” he managed, and for a moment Thranduil was so rattled he did not know what the other elf meant.

 

The Elvenking swallowed hard, finding his throat dry. “I…” He didn’t know what to say. Horror had rendered him mostly mute. “…I am so sorry, _mellon nin…”_

The ghost of a smile touched Lindir’s lips, a fading glimmer in his eyes. “It was not… your fault…” came his breathy whisper. “You… were strong…”

 

Thranduil could say nothing, feeling only a wave of guilt wash over him like a tide at those words. How could Lindir say such a thing when he was the one who had suffered fire and agony at the hands of their monstrous captors? He wanted to speak, but for some reason his throat felt tight, and Thranduil suddenly realized there were tears in his eyes.

 

Lindir’s eyes closed for a moment, his breaths wheezing and weak. “Please… Give me the only mercy you can…” he breathed, eyes half-open. “Do not let them… take that from me as well…” He was dying, slowly but surely, and there was no doubt that the orcs would prolong it, if only to make it more agonizing and slow. He did not want to die that way.

 

It was with an air of grim solemnity that Thranduil knew what he must do. His emotions were muted by shock, which granted him a physical and emotional numbness that he was vaguely grateful for, somewhere in the back of his mind. Without it, he feared he would have gone mad. Lindir was lost, and the only thing left to do was to give him peace at last…

 

“ _Ben iest gîn_ ,” said the king softly, and he put his hand over Lindir’s mouth and nose. He would not use some crude orc weapon to slaughter his friend like a pig. He could not bear to watch it, though, looking away as Lindir convulsed weakly beneath him, his body’s instincts trying to preserve life in him. But it was over quickly, what little life was left in Lindir’s body slipping away, and his shuddering limbs stilled, eyes staring lifelessly into nothing.

 

Thranduil gently closed Lindir’s eyes before withdrawing his hand, feeling utterly hollow. If he had not been witness to the horrific torture Lindir suffered, he might have said that the elf looked as though he were at peace or only sleeping, though elves did not sleep with their eyes closed. He had wanted to say some words of remembrance over Lindir’s body, something to aid his passing to Mandos’ Halls, but Thranduil found himself mute with mind-numbing shock. There was nothing he could say that would make the other elf’s death less horrific, less agonizing, or less cruel.

 

The Elvenking sat on the stone floor in a daze, feeling as though he was in a strange sort of trance. The thought of trying to escape didn’t even occur to him as he sat next to Lindir’s body, which was quickly becoming cold and stiff as blood sluggishly coagulated in his veins. Thranduil couldn’t think right then, his mind still overwhelmed with images of Lindir’s bloodied corpse intermixed with fragmented memories of dragonfire and death. It felt somehow wrong to callously ignore the scene before him, sacrilegious in its own way.

 

He didn’t know how much time had passed before Dagok returned, the door banging open with a force that made Thranduil flinch in surprise. The orc took one look at Lindir’s body, motionless with his eyes closed, and scowled, eyes narrowing. He turned to Thranduil and snarled, backhanding the Elvenking hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor. “I know this is your doing,” he spat. “You elves don’t die so easily, and I wasn’t done with him.”

 

Thranduil simply lay on the floor for a moment, tasting blood in his mouth from the harsh blow. But then he remembered himself and was able to collect himself without missing another beat, sitting up and glaring at the orc with icy blue eyes. “Are you so afraid that I will not break under your tortures?” he asked in a low voice. “I have no patience for cowards.” He knew that it was the wrong thing to say, that it would only make the orc commander angrier, but he couldn’t find it in him to care at the moment.

 

Dagok snarled and put his heavy boot into Thranduil’s back in a vicious kick, causing the elf to gasp and writhe in pain as agony seared through his far-from-healed wounds. “Insolent elfling,” the orc growled, yellow eyes blazing. “You seem to have forgotten that you are next.” He smirked cruelly, pinning Thranduil to the ground with a boot on his shoulder, watching the elf king shudder and writhe beneath him. “And no matter how much time it takes, remember this: I _will_ break you.”

 

Thranduil thought it wise not to say anything more, biting his tongue to keep silent even as he felt the wounds on his back tear open again, sending warm blood trickling over his skin. _We will see about that_ , he vowed silently, teeth gritted.

 

Dagok sneered down at the bleeding elf before removing his foot and turning to the door, where the five guards waited. “Take this one back to the dungeons,” he ordered, nudging Thranduil again with his boot. “Make sure he is kept… solitary.”

 

The guards grunted in assent and came forward, hauling the Elvenking to his feet and forcing his arms behind his back once more. Thranduil did not bother to struggle, only shooting a dark glare at Dagok before he passed through the door, infuriated at the orc’s damnable too-wide grin.

 

“Keep movin’, you,” one of the orcs growled, jabbing him in the back with the edge of a blunt sword, and Thranduil bit back a pained hiss at how it aggravated his wounds once again. He didn’t dignify that with a response, walking stiffly to where they led him, deeper into the darkness of the fortress. The shadows seemed to be even more stifling, if that was possible as they descended a flight of slick stone stairs, the air thick and black like tar around them. It smelled like wet stone and mildew, and the light from the flickering torches on the wall was weak at best.

 

Thranduil had thought they were taking him back to the same dungeon as before, but his predictions were proved wrong when they took a turn he didn’t remember taking before, and he frowned. There couldn’t possibly be a deeper level than this, even in a fortress as dark and sinister as Dol Guldur. He did not get a chance to ponder it further, however, for the orcs shoved him suddenly into a small, windowless cell that was nearly pitch black inside.

 

“This oughta do the trick,” one of them said with a cackle, eyes gleaming like beady insect eyes in the torchlight. “Solitary always gets ‘em to talk after a good few weeks.”

 

“Jus’ can’t leave ‘im in there too long,” another orc grunted as he shut the heavy iron door, which he locked immediately. “Or ‘e’ll be nothin’ but a babblin’ madman, and then ‘e’ll be useless to the cap’n.”

 

“Ev’rbody knows that,” the first orc replied impatiently, already starting to walk away, his heavy footsteps reverberating in the corridor. “But we wait for Cap’n Dagok’s orders. Just come on, Rakshad, an’ don’t think too much. You ‘aven’t got the brains for it.”

 

“Shut up, you filthy weasel,” the other orc growled, and there was a thump of metal against a bony appendage, followed by a protesting noise.

 

Thranduil stopped listening after their conversation deteriorated into bickering, and he blinked hard in the darkness, trying to determine if his eyes were open or closed. Even with his keen elven sight, he could see absolutely nothing in such profound blackness. He could only feel around carefully to determine his surroundings, which weren’t too expansive. Four walls, all of rough, damp black stone, and the iron door, smooth and cold beneath his touch. There was a small slot in the bottom of the door which a tiny, pitiful amount of light crept through, but it was useless to try to see anything by it.

 

After a moment the Elvenking sighed quietly and sat back on his knees, suddenly exhausted. He wobbled a bit, his balance feeling off with nothing to orient himself around. Such utter blackness was rather disorienting, and Thranduil thought briefly that even the cell he’d been chained in before was less morbid than this blackness.

 

The adrenaline rush from earlier was fading now, and Thranduil found himself shaky and tired, his wounds throbbing with a fierce, heated ache. He needed to rest, though he was hardly inclined to want to sleep in such a place, and he was certain to relive the day’s horrors in the darkness of his dreams. Bracing himself for the pain, Thranduil laid himself stiffly on his side, sucking in a sharp breath when his wounds gave a painful twinge. Mercifully, it soon faded into the dull throb that it had been before, and for that Thranduil was grateful, for he didn’t have the energy to move again.

 

_Just for a little while_ , he told himself, trying to relax enough to allow sleep to come. It proved to be less difficult than he thought, and he slipped into a much-needed, if fitful, sleep.

 

He would certainly need his strength for what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here's something to brighten up your Monday? c: In any case, I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for all of your positive feedback so far, keep it up guys! It really helps to know that you appreciate this work. 
> 
> Also, I don't have an exact timeline, but I'd say these events take place approximately in the middle of the Third Age. Vague, I know, but I'm bad with dates and keeping them consistent, lol. Also, Legolas is maybe 1500 or so here? Since we don't have a canon age for him, I headcanon him as around the same age as Elladan and Elrohir, who were born in TA 130. And Lainathiel is a member of the palace guard! She often rotates to forest patrols, however, because she's an excellent tracker. (Someone asked questions about this on FF, so I'm posting the answers here too for reference.)
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for your comments! I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this story. But I was wondering: would you like to see more of either Thranduil's or Legolas' point of view? Alternating them has worked well so far, but if you feel like there's not enough of one or the other, please leave a comment!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Goheno nin- forgive me
> 
> Ben iest gîn- as you wish


	5. What Was Found

_~5~_

_What Was Found_

_._

_._

_._

 

“Yes, I _am_ certain,” Legolas insisted, gazing at his friend as they entered his seldom-used study, though he had occupied it more this past week than he had in the past fifty years.

 

Lainathiel sighed, following him into the room with her brows furrowed. “But how?” she asked, frowning in concern. “There are none who can truly know the future. Even Lord Elrond is not always right.”

 

“I know,” Legolas said impatiently as he rifled through the messy piles of papers on his desk, looking for the letter he had penned in the wee hours of the morning, when he had been unable to sleep. “But there is a chance, and that is what matters.”

 

Lainathiel looked at him with concern. “You cannot pin your hopes on foresight, Legolas,” she said, not unkindly. “…what if you find out something you do not wish to know?”

 

This gave Legolas a moment’s pause; he had to admit that he hadn’t considered that possibility. What if Elrond had foreseen something terrible? “Then I will take that chance,” he said finally, not looking up from the papers. “I cannot afford to second-guess myself now, Lainathiel.”

 

Pursing her lips, the elleth’s face was pinched, her dark eyes stormy with worry. “I know you are clinging to hope, _mellon nin_ ,” she began quietly. “But I believe you search in a direction that leads nowhere.”

 

Legolas looked up at her suddenly, hurt and upset. “You think that looking for a way to save my father’s life is foolish?” he asked, more sharply than he had intended. “I know that he would do the same if he were in my place now!”

 

The elleth flinched as if she had been struck, and Legolas immediately felt a prickle of guilt for snapping at her. “I did not mean to say such a thing,” she replied quietly. “But Legolas, you must know that it is dangerous to involve other lands in our own disputes.”

 

The Prince was silent for a moment, wrestling with his feelings of guilt and turmoil about what decision he would make. He knew that Lainathiel was only trying to help, and he felt remorseful for acting so harshly toward her. But he also knew that Lainathiel was Silvan, and her people had long been reclusive inhabitants of the forest. She herself had good reason to be reticent to those outside of Mirkwood; her father had died in a skirmish with orcs when she was young, and she never spoke of her mother.

 

But too Legolas knew that her words held truth, that asking for aid from the Noldorin lords would be to take a considerable risk. While their kingdoms were not at odds, neither were they were not the greatest of friends. The Elvenking had maintained a cool, mainly practical relationship with the lords of Imladris and Lothlórien, but he held no great love for them, nor they for him. The ancient divide between the Noldor and the Sindar still existed, though it was much deeper for those such as Thranduil and Elrond, who had lived through the First Age, the Second, and all its terrible wars.

 

For Legolas, it would only be a matter of reaching out to a friend, for he had known Elrond and his sons for all his life, and the twins were good friends to the Prince. But Legolas could not imagine his father doing such a thing; he was sensible but proud, and more stubborn than an aurochs at times. Legolas let out a sigh, resting his head in his hands for a moment.

 

“I am sorry,” said the Prince finally, glancing up at Lainathiel with tired blue eyes. “I should not have been so sharp with you. I just…” He sighed again, sitting down in a nearby chair. “…I do not know what to do. I thought I did, but there are a thousand ways any decision I make could go wrong.”

 

Lainathiel sat down beside him, her gaze sympathetic. “It’s alright. I can hardly fault you for being on edge,” she said with a small, wry smile. “And I did not mean to make your decision any harder.”

 

“I know,” said Legolas, watching a tiny spider crawl across the plane of his desk, scuttling over peaks of paper and curving quills. “But there is nothing that will make this easier for me. Or for any of us.”

 

Lainathiel watched him for a moment, dark brown eyes sharply perceptive. “You look like you haven’t slept at all. That cannot make things any easier.”

 

“It does not. But sleep would not come to me last night,” Legolas admitted. He decided not to mention his nightmares. They were only dreams, anyway, and they meant nothing but to represent the tumult of his own mind. He hoped that allowing them to fade from memory would ease the ominous feeling that hung over him like a dark cloud.

 

“Then you should rest,” Lainathiel urged him, concerned. “You need it just as much as any of us.”

 

Legolas shook his head. “I cannot afford to waste time,” he said, looking at her with grave seriousness. “You know that.”

 

Lainathiel looked like she might protest for a moment, but she held back any argument she might have had. Legolas did not need anyone else haranguing him to do something. He had enough weight on his shoulders as it was. “…I know.” She looked at him. “So what will you do now? I will bear your letter to Lord Elrond if you wish it.”

 

Legolas shook his head as he stood up from the desk. “No,” he said. “Not yet. Assemble my father’s council. I must meet with them when I return.” He was already headed toward the door, fastening his cloak and reaching for his bow and quiver.

 

“Return? From where?” Lainathiel asked, frowning in both concern and confusion. “Legolas, you cannot run from this.”

 

“I am not running,” Legolas retorted, staring at her with sharp, serious blue eyes. “There is something I must do.”

 

Lainathiel met his gaze for a moment, understanding passing between them with a short, meaningful silence, then inclined her head. “Yes, my lord.”

 

~oOo~

.

.

.

 

The captain of the guard was both surprised and slightly confused at the Prince’s request. They met in the stables, where Raenor had been brushing out his horse’s coat after a long patrol, and the grooms were busy cleaning the hooves of other mounts. “You want to return to that place?” he repeated, his tone one of questioning but his expression characteristically stoic except for the slight furrowing of his brows. “But why?”

 

“Because I must look upon it again,” Legolas insisted, unable to explain the nagging feeling he had inside his heart, the one that told him there was something to be found in the forest still. “Call it intuition.”

 

Raenor’s grey eyes were stormy. “My Prince, it is dangerous,” he began, but Legolas cut him off with a frustrated sigh.  


“I know,” said the Prince impatiently. “And that is why I am asking you to go with me. I need another pair of eyes with me.”

 

Raenor blinked, surprise flickering across his features for a split second. Then he gave a rare, amused smile. “I hardly thought you’d ask my permission before going on such a trip.”

 

“I am not asking your permission,” replied Legolas, his smile playful. “Only your companionship.”

 

“Both are granted,” Raenor said, amusement in his voice as he patted his horse’s neck. “Saddle Aduial. He has gotten restless as of late.”

 

Legolas blinked, surprised. Riding his father’s horse was the last thing he would have thought to do, but it seemed oddly… comforting, in a way. “It will be good for him to get a bit of exercise,” he agreed absently, making his way toward the front of the stable, where the tall white palfrey snorted and stamped his hooves.

 

Legolas approached the horse slowly, with softly murmured calming words as he reached up a hand to pat Aduial’s neck. The horse whuffed and tossed his head a bit but didn’t give too much protest, for which Legolas was grateful. The Elvenking’s mount was rather temperamental and stubborn, (quite like the king himself, Legolas thought), and he could be difficult to handle for anyone who was not his usual rider.

 

“Shh… _sîdh, mellon nin_ ,” he said in a soft voice as he settled the saddle onto the horse’s back, tightening the girth straps and patting Aduial’s neck. The horse snorted as if to protest but didn’t struggle when Legolas slid the bridle over his head, leading him out of the stable to follow Raenor.

 

“You seem to have calmed his nerves well,” Raenor remarked, watching Legolas mount the tall white horse with ease. “He’s been a bit snippy with the grooms since he came back.” A patrol had come upon several of the horses, including the king’s, a few hours after the… incident had been discovered, the animals unharmed and alive. They had been luckier than their riders, it seemed, and they remained the only present and living witnesses to the slaughter that had taken place a week and a half ago.

 

“I think he knows I am my father’s son,” Legolas chuckled, patting the horse’s neck. “Otherwise he would not be nearly so complacent.”

 

“Perhaps,” said Raenor as he glanced up at the sky. “We should be going now, my Prince, if we wish to return before nightfall.” It was a good few hours’ ride each way to the place they sought, and it was already past noon.

 

Legolas gave a nod, and together they rode into the forest at a swift canter, urging the horses to a gallop when the road stretched flat and clear, for time was short in the day, and they wished to make haste. Legolas was wary even though they kept to the well-trodden paths, his ears sharp despite his preoccupied mind. If there were orcs or spiders in these woods, he would know it before they slunk out from the shadows. Returning to the scene of the ambush seemed a bit strange, he knew, but Legolas had the desire to do so for reasons he didn’t quite understand yet. Perhaps it was morbid fascination, or the desire to search for some clues that had been missed before. All he knew was that he had to go back, and Legolas hoped that the place would give him some clue as to what to do. He felt overwhelmed, and he needed something, anything to show him which path was the right one to take.

 

Raenor kept his eyes and ears open as well; he would allow nothing to slip past him and harm the Prince. After the disaster that had befallen their King, one could not be too careful. He knew Legolas would have never consented to an escort of armed guards, which would have been preferable for everyone’s peace of mind, but one companion was better than Legolas running off on his own. The Prince could be reckless at times, and this was a time when none of them could afford to be reckless.

 

After two hours of riding nonstop, Legolas slowed his horse to a walk, his skin prickling as he recognized the stretch of road they were approaching. He remembered the twisted beech tree and the thicket of tall grasses flanking the path, which led to the blood-soaked grounds where the ambush had taken place. “We are here,” he said to Raenor in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the path.

 

“Indeed we are,” murmured the captain of the guard, feeling a chilly breeze sigh past them from the path ahead. The forest itself seemed to darken with the memory of the tragedy not even two weeks past, in mourning and ominous tension. “Do we go further, my Prince?”

 

“We must.” Legolas dismounted, patting Aduial’s neck absently as he stared ahead. The palfrey gave a short whinny, pawing at the dirt with one hoof. “The horses will spook easily, so we go on foot from here.”

 

Raenor slid from the saddle as well, murmuring a staying word to his horse before joining up with Legolas, a hand hovering near his sword hilt. “Might I ask what you are looking for, Prince Legolas?”

 

Legolas did not seem to share Raenor’s acute wariness, though his eyes were sharp, his senses alert even as his thoughts took up his attention. “I do not yet know,” he admitted, glancing up at the forest canopy when a cawing raven noisily flapped its wings and took off. “But I will soon.”

 

Raenor gave a quiet sigh; it seemed that the Prince and his father shared one thing in common, and that was their cryptic answers to most any question one could ask. “If you say so, my Prince,” he murmured, eyes scanning the dense underbrush on either side of the path. “But I do not like this place. It feels ill at ease.”

 

“As does all the forest,” replied Legolas, his eyes shadowed as he touched the bark of a tall maple, scarred by arrows and the errant slice of a sword. “There has been much strife in these woods, and it began long before this.”

 

Raenor gave a silent nod in response, gazing at the trees and their scarred bark, the broken brush and dark-stained earth. “Indeed it did,” he murmured, feeling the whispers of the trees pass over him like little breaths of wind. “Long, long before…” A waving branch caught Raenor’s eye suddenly, and he glanced to the right, where a glimpse of something red was visible between the leaves. Eyes narrowed and a hand straying to his sword, he approached the tree, pushing aside the long willow branches to reveal what was behind.

 

A small breath of shock escaped the elf, his eyes going wide at the sight of the mark carved into the tree… A crude red eye, slashed into the bark like a brand, stared back at him with quiet malevolence. Raenor knew that symbol, and it made a ripple of deep unease travel up his spine. “Prince Legolas,” he said, raising his voice to get the attention of his companion. “There is something you must see.”

 

Legolas immediately turned in the direction of Raenor’s voice, frowning. The captain of the guard sounded uncertain, a conspicuous contrast to his usual stoicism. If it had Raenor worried, then it couldn’t be anything good. The Prince made his way toward the willow tree where the other elf stood beneath its waving branches, sighing. “What is it?” he asked gravely, glancing at Raenor and then at the tree, which immediately answered his question.

 

Legolas fell silent for a long moment, staring at the ominous mark and feeling a cold shadow pass over him, like something dark had stolen the last warmth out of the autumn air. “…this mark is evil,” he said finally, his voice low. “There is only one who bears that symbol, and he has not been seen since the time of Isildur.”

 

Raenor nodded gravely. “Then it is true,” he murmured. “Sauron rises again in the south…”

 

Legolas pursed his lips into a thin line. It seemed that things were only going to get worse, he thought sardonically. “Perfect timing,” he muttered.

 

Raenor glanced at Legolas but kept silent, watching the Prince’s stormy expression and knowing it meant he was deep in thought. The captain of the guard turned his attention to the path, which was as deserted as they had left it before. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the broken underbrush and arrows still stuck in the trees, vestiges of the ambush. It seemed that the patrols had not thought the arrows worth recovering, or perhaps they had been left there as a warning to other… unsavory characters who might pass through these woods. If the forest itself did not scare off most intruders, the elves certainly did.

 

Though that only seemed to apply if said intruders did not happen to be orcs, who had no problem infesting their forest like the giant spiders who had begun to grow so bold as to spin their webs in the trees not two miles from the elven stronghold. It was as if the shadow grew darker with each day that passed, despite the fact that the sun still rose each day and the light of the stars twinkled above them each night.

 

“Go back without me.” Legolas suddenly spoke up, and Raenor snapped out of his trance of thought.

 

Raenor stared at the Prince, frowning slightly. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I said, go back without me,” Legolas repeated, glancing at the other elf with a grave expression. “I’m going to Dol Guldur. Alone.”

 

Raenor’s eyebrows went up, the most expression he typically showed. “You’re joking,” he said, not quite believing it. “Legolas, you know that is a fool’s errand.”

 

“I’m quite serious, Raenor,” replied Legolas as he mounted his horse again, already preparing to take off. The look on the Prince’s face said that he did not jest. “I will not stand to take no action any longer.”

 

Raenor stood in front of the horse, fixing Legolas with a cold stare. “Legolas, you cannot.” His voice was low and deadly serious. With the king already captured by the very same orcs Legolas would be hunting, it was ludicrous to let him go, especially alone. He could not let the Prince undertake a practical suicide mission. “You are the Crown Prince of Mirkwood. Your people need you to lead them in your father’s absence.”

 

“And my father will not be absent for much longer if I go now,” Legolas retorted sharply, not budging from atop the horse. “Move out of my way, Raenor. You are my friend, and I do not wish for you to get hurt by involving yourself in this. It is my task.”

 

“Riding alone into Dol Guldur is suicide or worse!” Raenor glared at him, not angry but concerned for his friend’s safety. Legolas’ sense of duty was very strong, especially when it came to his father, but what he was trying to do now was foolish. There were hundreds of orcs in that dark ruin, and Elbereth only knew what they might do to the Prince if they caught him. “There are legions of orcs infesting that foul place! Legolas, listen to me…”

 

“I have listened.” Legolas cut him off, his tone firm. “And I have made a decision. Now as the Prince of Mirkwood I am commanding you to stand by and return to the palace without me.” He hated to pull rank; it left a feeling of uncomfortable remorse squirming in his belly, but this was something he had to do. Alone. It was better to remain unnoticed that way, and his chances were better if he remained hidden.

 

A look of defeat flickered in Raenor’s eyes, and he let out a deep sigh that seemed to drain the bristling resistance from him. “…very well, my Prince,” he murmured, stepping away and inclining his head respectfully towards Legolas. He could not disobey an order from the Prince, even a foolish one. “May Elbereth light your path.”

 

Legolas nodded, his eyes grateful. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, and he hoped Raenor would not worry too much. They both knew that his skill with a bow was impeccable, and he had his knives if it came to close combat. He would be safe with his own protection. He was not an elfling any longer.

 

He pressed his heels into Aduial’s sides, urging the horse forward at a walk, though he glanced over his shoulder at Raenor one last time. “I will return on the morrow,” he said, hoping to sound reassuring. “Tell Lainathiel and the council to wait for me, but do not worry.”

 

“As you wish, Prince Legolas,” Raenor said with an expression more grave than a funeral. He was concerned, that much was obvious, and it was frustrating to be unable to offer any help, even if it was because Legolas would not accept it. He had sworn an oath to protect the royal family when he joined the guard, and this felt like a betrayal of his promise.

 

Legolas wanted to cringe at the sound of Raenor’s formal tone. He sighed, turning back to face forward on the horse. With nothing else to say, he spurred Aduial onward at a gallop, quickly leaving his friend in the dust and trying to ignore the feeling of guilt that crept in his heart. He was doing only what he had to, Legolas assured himself, his grip on the reins tightening with anxiety.

 

_Just hold on a bit longer, ada_ , Legolas thought silently, determined to get to Dol Guldur before nightfall. If he could manage that, then he could slip into the fortress with the coming of night, when the shadows fell and the sky’s darkening obscured the orcs’ vision temporarily. Orcs had a keen sense of smell, but not so much sight, and the smell of horse would disguise Legolas’ own.

 

Legolas was not the type of elf who could sit and wait for a solution to present itself, especially in a situation such as this. Of course he had been trained since he was young in diplomatic proceedings, being the Crown Prince of Mirkwood and all, and he’d attended many a dull court session with his father. But the Prince had little patience for such things; by his own reasoning he made a far better warrior than a prince. He had tried to do as his father would have, to be utterly unflappable and solve a crisis with a few calm orders, but Legolas was not his father. Tired of sending others to do things for him, Legolas decided he was going to fix this the best way he knew how: by his own hand.

 

~oOo~

.

.

.

 

It was nightfall when Legolas reached the dark fortress upon the hill, able to see the torches lit on the ramparts even through the trees where he stayed hidden. Orcs patrolled the ruins with crossbows and swords, their footsteps crunching on the crumbling black stone of Dol Guldur, and Legolas’ sharp ears could pick up their gravelly voices muttering to each other, though the words were indistinct.

 

He slid from the saddle quietly, stroking the horse’s muzzle to quiet him. With a murmured staying word to his mount, he leapt into a tree to get a better vantage point, hoping to get a better overview of the fortress’ layout while still hidden in the leaves. Legolas grimaced; the guards were many, and the fortress itself seemed to be a mess of crumbling walls and twisting staircases. There was no way to enter the front gates without being seen, but if he approached the fortress from the side… The shadows were thick there, and there did not seem to be much traffic of orcs that way. He could scale the wall and slip in through a window, and hopefully be in and out before anyone noticed.

 

Legolas took a deep breath, steeling his nerves as he mentally plotted his course. There was no way he could defeat an entire legion of orcs if he were to be spotted, so there was no room for error here. _And I haven’t all night_ , he thought to himself. _If I linger too long, I will lose the cover of darkness._ Just as he prepared to jump down from the tree, a loud, harsh voice broke through the quiet night air, and Legolas froze, resisting the urge to reach for his bow.

 

“Come on, you filthy maggots!” an orc snapped at his companions not twenty feet away, their bulky bodies barely visible in the dark of the cloudy night, and Legolas felt a surge of relief.

 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” another orc snapped, though he sounded out of breath, grunting as he lugged a heavy barrel on his back alongside others who carried the same burden. “Can’t you give us a bloody break?! It’s heavy!”

 

Legolas couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about, and he peered carefully through the branches below, watching the orcs approach the border of the forest surrounding the hill. They each carried a large barrel of something, which could be heard sloshing around thickly inside the warped wooden container. He watched silently, listening to their grunts and complaints to better gauge their location.

 

“No, you damned worm!” growled the one whom Legolas supposed was the leader, shoving aside several low-hanging branches as they started to enter the forest. “We’ve got to carry out our orders ‘fore the bloody sun comes up, an’ these barrels of pitch ain’t going to spread themselves!”

 

The other orcs merely grumbled and muttered irritably, but Legolas wasn’t listening to them, his eyes going wide. _Barrels of pitch? They can’t be planning to…_ Suddenly Legolas remembered his dream of flames consuming the forest, unquenchable fires roaring and devouring the woods like ravenous fiends of flame… They were going to burn the forest!

 

He had his bow drawn in an instant, silent and deadly like the coiling of a snake ready to strike, the only sound the slight creak of the bowstring as he nocked an arrow. It was aimed for the lead orc’s throat, an easy kill shot, and his shoulders quivered faintly with the urge to let it fly, to protect his home in the quickest and simplest way possible, but something held him back. Something whispered in the back of his mind that he couldn’t do this, not now. His common sense spoke, telling him clearly that if he shot one of them, the other four would know instantly where he was, and there was no doubt that they would sound the alarm or at least draw the attention of more orcs.

 

As much as Legolas wanted to make short work of them, he knew he couldn’t afford to risk being discovered. Not when he had so much at stake already. He silently lowered his bow, muscles still tense with battle-readiness. Those orcs wouldn’t get far from the fortress carrying such heavy cargo, he reasoned, and there would be time to dispose of them later, if a patrol didn’t come along and finish the job for him.

 

Legolas slung his bow over his back once more and clambered swiftly to the next tree with the silent, fluid grace only an elf could possess, leaving the orcs to mutter complaints amongst themselves. He stayed in the trees as long as he could, not wanting to chance meeting another band of orcs on the ground, but the forest thinned quickly as he approached the great looming walls of black stone, and soon their thin branches would no longer support him. Legolas dropped to the ground in a crouch, looking left and right quickly for any sign of orcs. When he found none, he didn’t hesitate to make a run for the wall, darting into its shadow to conceal himself again.

 

It was probably midnight by now, and a pale sliver of moon peered through the grey clouds blanketing the sky. The silvery light seemed paltry and weak here, in sharp contrast to the glimmering pale light he was used to seeing on nights when he would sit outside the elven stronghold and watch the stars, their light twinkling merrily across the midnight canvas of the sky. _Eitho nin, Elbereth_ , the Prince gave a silent entreaty, not daring to speak aloud.

 

He turned to the stone wall and leapt up a few feet, managing to find a foothold and begin scaling the precarious tower. It was slow going, for the whole fortress was a crumbling ruin, and he had to be very careful not to misplace a hand or a foot and send rubble falling beneath him, or fall himself. Either of those things was certain to draw attention, and that was the last thing he needed.

 

There was a small window a few feet above, and Legolas crept up towards it with the silent, predatory grace of a Mirkwood spider, listening intently for anyone who might be within. He climbed up next to the window, a cool night breeze ruffling his hair as he peered into the darkness of the fortress. There was a tiny bit of torchlight flickering from around a corner, but nothing could be seen by it, and the corridor seemed deserted.

 

Legolas took this as a good sign and climbed inside, glancing left and right and wondering where to go… He’d made no plans as to how he would find anything in the crumbling, mazelike castle, and now he realized that perhaps that might not have been wise. He didn’t have time to think on it any longer, however, as the sound of footsteps and guttural voices approached quickly from the right, and Legolas had only seconds to hide himself.

 

The Prince quickly pressed himself into a shadowy alcove, pulling up his hood and hoping the dark cloth would hide his fair skin and hair and allow him to blend in with the darkness. The orcs came around the corner not a moment later, two hulking brutes who nearly took up the entire corridor, arguing in throaty growls.

 

“There is none who can command these legions but I,” spat the tall one, who was nearly eight feet tall, with huge hands that looked like they could split boulders. “He does not presume to command me!”

 

The other one, a bald orc with broad shoulders and beady eyes, let out a low, rumbling growl. “You have been summoned, Dagok,” he growled in thickly accented Common Tongue. “Your forces are called to Gundabad.”

 

“Gundabad is three hundred leagues from here,” Dagok retorted through clenched teeth, stopping just before the alcove where Legolas was hidden to face his companion, his posture confrontational. “And here we are dealing with the elf-scum. Tell your commander that.”

 

The bald orc bared his jagged black teeth, scarred lips pulling back in a snarl. “Let the elves sit in their filthy trees. Leave a force to burn the forest and drive them out,” he rumbled. “The Master does not tolerate insolence.”

 

Dagok let out a deep snarl, an angry sound that reminded Legolas of an enraged boar. “We are setting the pyres now,” he growled. “I will leave two hundred to squash the last of the survivors.” He didn’t sound pleased with the idea, but it appeared that this orc held some sway over him.

 

The beady eyes narrowed further as the bald orc’s face twisted in an ugly grin. “Take everything you have and leave this pit behind. We will march soon.”

 

Dagok spat several ugly, unintelligible words in Orcish and stormed off, leaving his companion to smirk at his back. The beady-eyed orc didn’t move right away, though, and Legolas could feel those eyes on him even as he tried to keep as still as part of the wall itself, staring downward so that the hood of his cloak hid his face. The shadows hid him from view, but if the orc moved only slightly back to the right, the light of the moon outside would illuminate the elf’s figure like a silhouette.

 

But before he could investigate, Dagok’s harsh, loud voice called angrily, “Bolg! Get your carcass in here!”

 

Bolg sneered in the direction of the voice but followed with a growl, his attention drawn away as he continued on to the left, and Legolas let out a minute sigh of relief. He slipped out of the alcove and around the corner to the right, his mind racing.

 

Gundabad? They were marshaling forces at Gundabad? But for what? And who was their mysteriously unnamed commander? A hundred questions flickered through Legolas’ mind, each more puzzling than the last. What interest did they have in the woodland realm? And what did that have to do with his father? They had to have taken him captive for a reason.

 

There was no time to think on such things, though, and Legolas quickly drew himself back to the present. He could ponder the orcs’ motives once he had rescued Thranduil and gotten them both safely back home. There was a winding stone staircase nearby that led downward, and Legolas took it, hearing no voices from below. He was cautious, listening carefully for any sign of orcs, but all he could hear was faint snoring from the guard next to the door on the landing.

 

Legolas glanced at the snoring orc; he appeared to be drunk, judging from the empty glass bottles around him and the strong smell of alcohol in the air, and he smirked wryly. It was too bad he wasn’t here on a hunting mission. But he did steal the ring of keys from the guard’s belt, deciding he might have need of them later.

 

He took a left and looked around confusedly, wondering where all these damn corridors led. They all seemed to have one or two half-rotted doors along them, the rooms they led to seeming abandoned from the looks of them. He swore quietly in frustration, turning around to head back to the stair landing. Maybe another floor would yield more clues.

 

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the orc coming by until they ran into each other, bumping chest to chest in a jarring impact. “’Ey, watch where yer goin’!” the orc snapped in a nasal voice, irritated until he suddenly looked up and realized it was not another orc but an elf before him.

 

“Who in the bloody ‘ell are you?!” he shouted accusingly, drawing his dagger. “I oughta—!”

 

He was suddenly cut off with a gurgle of blood as Legolas’ white-hilted knife was buried in his throat, killing him. He yanked the knife out and allowed the body to collapse to the ground, swearing under his breath as more orcs rounded the corner, weapons drawn. It looked like he had no choice now, he thought as he drew his second blade, holding one of the twin knives in a reverse grip.

 

He waited until the orcs were almost upon him before springing into action, eviscerating one of them with a quick, deep slash of his knife, and coming up to slice the throat of another. He didn’t bother to watch them fall; hearing the gurgle of blood was enough to know that they were dead and he had more important things to take care of.

 

Legolas took down the last two with a well-placed stab in the weak points of their armor, quickly sheathing his blades. While those five hadn’t been much of a problem, the rest of the legion would no doubt overwhelm him, and he could already hear them approaching to see what the disturbance was. He grimaced; there was no good way to go about this, and he had to make a choice. Now. He could either find a way to escape, or take a chance and try to find his father.

 

He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, clenching his fists. He would have to take a chance. Legolas straightened his shoulders and looked up, not moving as a crowd of orcs quickly surrounded him, twenty spears and swords pointed at his chest and throat. He slowly raised his hands in a calm gesture of surrender, expression cold as he watched the tall, hulking orc he had seen before push through the crowd.

 

Dagok’s expression went from rage to suspicion to unsettling satisfaction within a few seconds of seeing Legolas, and a dark grin exposed his jagged teeth and black gums. “Well, well…” he chuckled in a tone that was like a warg’s deep growl, one black claw tilting Legolas’ head back to look the elf in his blue eyes. “What have we here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter than usual today because I couldn't find a sufficient cliffhanger, lol. I had a lot of fun writing this one! Thank you all so much for your words of encouragement; I really appreciate every one of your comments! You guys have inspired me to put a few surprises in later chapters, so keep the inspiration coming ;D
> 
> I'm glad you're enjoying the alternating POVs; it's been fun to write as well! Once again, thanks for reading, and please leave a comment with your thoughts!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Eitho nin- aid me/help me


	6. What Was Lost

_~6~_

_What Was Lost_

_._

_._

_._

In the seemingly endless darkness of the windowless cell, anything was a welcome distraction from the sense of vague claustrophobia that came with the damp walls and stagnant air. Thranduil had been trying not to think too much about it, about the small space and damp air and shadows that seemed to weigh down on his shoulders like a physical burden, and he had occupied himself mostly with counting the number of rats he could hear scuttling across the stone floor, darting in and out of cracks in the walls. It wasn't much, but it was something. The door was solid iron and very heavy, which he had found out after a few attempts at pushing it and finding that it was like trying to shoulder past a full-grown mountain troll, so an escape would have to wait until further opportunity presented itself.

Thranduil simply tried not to think too much at all. Thinking of what had happened in the fortress already made him feel slightly sick, and thinking of Legolas and Mirkwood only gave him more things to worry about. Sitting and doing nothing was frustrating in itself, but Thranduil had no other option but to wait.

He hated waiting.

None of the line of Oropher had been blessed with great patience, so it came as something of a relief when the sounds of loud shouting and fighting came from above, somewhere in the fortress. Thranduil was immediately alert, sitting up straight and listening intently. He could hear heavy orc footsteps, chasing someone or something… He didn't know who or what they might be after, but it had to be something important if so many orcs were involved.

Thranduil pressed his ear against the door to better hear the commotion going on outside, feeling suddenly hopeful for the first time in a while. Whoever it was, it sounded like they were no friend of the orcs, and there was no Man who would willingly take on a fortress filled with orcs. That meant there had to be Elves here, and it only made sense that they would be Mirkwood Elves.

Feeling his heartbeat quicken, Thranduil was suddenly anxious to be out there with them, fighting off these damned creatures to hasten their journey home. He knew that Legolas had to be quite worried by now, and he did hate to worry his son.

_Legolas… I am not far,_ ion nin,  _I promise,_ he thought in a silent plea that Legolas had not come here and put himself in danger.

Suddenly the commotion quieted, and Thranduil felt his heart drop. He could not tell for sure what had happened, who had won or what the battle's outcome had been, but now it was eerily quiet.  _Elbereth, let my warriors have won…_  The Elvenking pleaded silently, shutting his eyes in the darkness. He could only wait in the oppressive silence, hoping against hope.

Then the sound of heavy, trudging footsteps started up again, slowly getting closer as several orcs descended the stairs. Thranduil had a fair idea of the layout of the place, so he could see in his mind's eye approximately where they would be as they got closer, their voices low and growling as they spoke to each other in unintelligible tones. He could hear the clinking of chains as well, and with it his hope flickering away. Whoever it was, it seemed that the orcs had won and taken at least one of them captive.

"Put him with the other elf," growled the voice of one of the orcs. "The cap'n will deal with them both later."

There was a loud creak as the door to the cell briefly opened, and there was a brief flash of light from a lamp held by one of the guards before an elven figure was shoved unceremoniously inside. The door was shut again immediately, bathing them both in darkness, and the newcomer lost his footing in the small space, landing heavily on Thranduil's lap with a cry.

Thranduil hadn't realized how sore he was until a most likely twelve-stone elf fell on top of him, and he hissed through gritted teeth, pain shooting through his back and his ribs from the rough impact. "Would you watch where you're going…?!" he hissed, trying to keep his voice steady as his wounds throbbed.

The other elf quickly scampered off to the side, which wasn't very far considering the size of the cell. He was surprisingly agile for one who had just fought a battalion of orcs, Thranduil thought. But it was the voice that spoke next that shocked him most.

" _Ada?_ " Legolas' voice asked from the shadows, sounding both shocked and relieved.

Thranduil stiffened, staring at the vague outline of his son across from him. "Legolas?" he breathed, almost unable to believe it. A tumult of emotions went through him all at once: disbelief, shock, anger, concern… But what was most insistent was worry; this was his only son, after all. He sat up straight despite the twinge of pain it brought and reached out for Legolas in the darkness, his hand brushing his son's sleeve. "Legolas, what are you doing here? Are you alright? What happened?"

The words hardly registered in Legolas' mind. All he could think of was the overwhelming relief it brought to hear his father's voice, to know that he was alive and relatively unharmed. Hardly listening to Thranduil's worried ramblings, Legolas suddenly wrapped his arms around his father and hugged him tight, feeling weak with relief. " _Ada…_  Never mind about me, I'm just happy to see you alive…"

Thranduil was momentarily shocked at the sudden contact, and he tried very hard not to tense as the wounds on his back were pressed rather painfully by Legolas' leather vambraces. Instead he just embraced his son, focusing on the fact that his little leaf was not hurt. "You were a fool to come here," he whispered, closing his eyes and momentarily pressing a kiss to the crown of Legolas' head.

Legolas gave a faint smile. "I thought you might say that," he admitted. Then his voice turned serious again. "But I could not leave you in this place. Mirkwood needs its king."  _And I need you as well,_  he added silently.

"And now Mirkwood is missing a king and a prince," Thranduil pointed out, not unkindly. He did not wish to chastise his son for something he himself would have done had their positions been reversed, but all the same it had been foolish. "You did not plan this out very well,  _ion nîn._ "

Legolas sat back on his haunches, his grin flashing invisibly in the darkness. "Better than you think." He reached into a pocket of his tunic and pulled out the ring of keys, jingling them proudly.

Thranduil's eyebrows went up at the sound of jingling keys, and he could not help but laugh. "Very clever," he replied, pleased by Legolas' ingenuity. He paused a moment, thinking of something rather obvious of a sudden. "Clever, but the lock is on the outside of the door,  _ion nîn._ "

Legolas was about to protest, but the words died in his throat as he realized his father was right. Slightly embarrassed that he had not thought of that earlier, he glanced away. "…right," he said after a moment, awkwardly. "…I will think of something."

But Legolas didn't have long to think before the door was opened again by several orc guards, who ordered the two elves to their feet and led them out at swordpoint. As soon as they began the now-familiar path up the stone stairs to Dagok's study, Thranduil felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, and he wasn't sure if the lightheadedness he was experiencing was from blood loss and exhaustion or the sickening fear that gripped him at the thought of what they might do to Legolas.

Vivid memories of what Dagok had done to Lindir flashed briefly through Thranduil's mind, fragmented but just as stomach-turning as they had been the first time around. He stumbled and nearly missed a step on the way up the stairs, feeling suddenly shaky, and he was grateful when Legolas caught his arm, helping to steady him. The orcs growled curses at him, jabbing him with the hilt of a sword in irritation, but Thranduil was hardly paying attention to them. All he could focus on was the grinning face of the tall orc at the end of the hall, his silently laughing eyes and bared teeth. He knew; there was no mistaking the look in those beady, glinting yellow eyes. Dagok knew that Legolas was Thranduil's son, for there could be no denying the resemblance between them, and the orc intended to use that to his great advantage.

Legolas felt a chill go up his spine as they approached the huge orc, his grinning visage scarred and somehow deeply unsettling. He didn't know who this orc was, but he did know that he was someone powerful, someone to be wary of. Glancing at his father, he was only more concern when he saw the expression of disquiet on Thranduil's face. There were few things that could intimidate his father, and the few things Legolas knew were on that short list were the return of Sauron and the wrath of an angry dragon. He looked straight ahead and kept a stoic face despite the sinking feeling he had in his heart. This did not bode well.

The grinning orc approached Legolas and tilted the Prince's head back with one jagged claw, looking into his blue eyes with a predatory stare. "Well, well… The resemblance is uncanny," he chuckled in a low rumble, his eyes sliding left to look at Thranduil, who looked both darkly annoyed and vaguely murderous at seeing the orc touch his son.

"Keep your filthy hands off him," said the Elvenking in a low, icy tone that could chill a dragon's blood. If looks could kill, Dagok would have been dead a hundred times over.

Dagok only grinned wider. "How noble of you, to want to protect your little runt," he said with a cruel gleam in his eyes as he pulled Legolas by his collar into the room, and Thranduil needed no prodding to follow him. "But you know what I want, elf, and if you do not comply, I will not hesitate to flay your son alive right here."

Even Legolas felt a chill come over him at those words; he could  _feel_  that the orc wasn't bluffing. But he refused to show it, and he looked towards his father imploringly. " _Ada_ , don't give him anything he wants," he said urgently, refusing to be intimidated by the threats. If he showed any sign of being afraid, then it would be used against both him and Thranduil.

"Keep your mouth shut, Princeling," Dagok snapped suddenly, grabbing Legolas' arm in a harsh grip that made the elf grit his teeth and hiss.

Thranduil's eyes flashed at seeing his son handled so roughly, and he made a move toward Dagok, only to be restrained by several orc guards. "Leave my son out of this," he snapped, an edge of desperation to his voice. "He has nothing to do with what you want from me."

Dagok smirked, suddenly pulling out a black-bladed knife and twirling it surprisingly dexterously between his clawed fingers. "Oh, but that is where you're wrong." He grabbed Legolas' wrist and slammed the elf's hand down flat on the nearby table, the knife then embedding itself in the wood only a hairsbreadth from Legolas' hand, between his slightly splayed fingers. The tall orc grinned at seeing the tense reaction it got from both elves, chuckling in a low, sinister tone. "He has  _everything_  to do with this."

Thranduil said nothing, the silence tense and nearly tangible in its thickness around them all. He was visibly worried now, unable to hide how much he cared for his son, his only son, and he feared for what might happen to Legolas if this went on for much longer. But what Dagok wanted would not be easy to give; it would be a choice between his son or his kingdom. Thranduil could not help but feel torn, and he stared helplessly between Dagok and Legolas, who looked increasingly nervous.

Thranduil could hardly blame him, and he looked to Legolas with reassuring eyes. " _Saes,_ Legolas," he said softly. " _Avo drasto._ " He had part of a plan formed, and though he couldn't tell Legolas of that now, he needed his son to trust him.

Legolas gave a tiny nod, meeting his father's gaze and trying to keep his expression stoic. He was tense but cautiously hopeful; he saw the gleam in Thranduil's eye that meant he was somehow prepared, that he had a plan. He could only hope that it would be set into motion before the orcs decided they were done playing games.

Dagok's yellow eyes narrowed in impatience, and he yanked the knife out of the table, bringing it to Legolas' throat. "If you will not talk, I'll slit his throat," he rumbled threateningly as he pressed the blade against Legolas' pale neck, tilting the elf's head back to expose the softest skin. "I grow bored of your games."

The slightest flicker of panic was visible in Thranduil's eyes for a split second, but it was gone in another instant, replaced by the Elvenking's cold mask of calm. "Leave him be," he said coldly. "…I will tell you what you wish to hear so long as my son comes to no harm."

Dagok smirked, and Legolas' eyes widened. " _Ada_ , no!" he protested, alarmed, but he was silenced by a heavy shove from the orc, which was enough to send him stumbling against the wall.

"A wise decision, elf," Dagok grinned as he approached a tense Thranduil. "Now tell me the location of the secret path through the forest. Before I change my mind about sparing your whelp."

Thranduil stared defiantly into the orc's beady yellow eyes, a challenge, and a dangerous one. But it worked as intended: he saw the flare of anger in Dagok's eyes, distracting him with a violent rage, and Thranduil seized his chance.

With shocking swiftness he ducked under Dagok's huge fist, stealing a dagger from the belt of a guard and popping back up to slash Dagok viciously across the face with it. There was a spray of black blood and a roar of pain, but Thranduil didn't pause to see the results. He turned on the rest of the guards, who were made clumsy and slow by the shock of the whole thing, and immediately stabbed the nearest one in the throat, a messy but efficient kill. He dodged the swipe of a sword from another one, glancing over his shoulder at a clearly shocked Legolas.

"Legolas!" he snapped, shocking the Prince out of his stunned state. "Let's go!" They wouldn't have much time before someone heard the scuffle going on and came with reinforcements, and they were only two elves against a legion of orcs that occupied the fortress. Their window of escape was narrow at best.

Legolas entered the fray without any further hesitation, his expression contorted into a snarl as he too picked up a knife and killed two more, clearing the path to the door. "Come on!" he said urgently, and Thranduil followed him out of the room, both of them dashing around the corner toward the armory.

"I will need my bow," said the Prince by way of explanation once they arrived, hurriedly strapping on the quiver and keeping the bow in hand. Thranduil made no protest, using the opportunity to snag back his own twin broadswords. It would most likely be a good idea to be armed in their current situation, for there was only so much running one could do.

"We can lose them in the forest," Thranduil said quickly as they hurried up the stairs, already able to hear the stampeding orcs not twenty paces behind. "But we have to get out somehow, and the main gates will be heavily guarded." He hadn't really thought that part out, but he hadn't thought they would get this far, quite honestly.

"There's a window and a wall we can climb down," Legolas answered immediately, glancing at his father and then ducking as an arrow flew over his head, clattering off the stone wall. He glanced from the stairs, then back to Thranduil. "But we must hurry."

"Lead the way," Thranduil answered, knowing this was not the time for questions as he turned to follow Legolas. But first he kicked several orcs back down the stairs just before they reached the top, at the perfect angle to plant his foot in one's chest and send them all tumbling backwards. That should give them a few seconds' time, he thought as he ran after Legolas, catching a glimpse of his son's blond hair disappearing around another corner.

Thranduil let out a sharp hiss when an arrow whizzed past, tearing his sleeve and grazing the skin beneath. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the orcs were not ten paces behind him now, snarling and slavering like rabid hounds after their prey. He wasted no more time looking back then, running to the window where Legolas had just climbed out and was clinging to the wall.

"You will have to hurry," said the Elvenking as he climbed out, glancing down at his son as he stood in the window. He did not have time to say more as the orcs suddenly poured in like a deluge, flooding the corridor and reaching for the two elves with weapons and grabbing hands.

Legolas swore and tried to slide downward a bit faster, but the stone was craggy and unstable, and his footholds were uncertain at best. His heart beginning to pound, he glanced up at saw the orcs swarming the window like a pot boiling over, and there were too many of them for his father to hold back. He cried out suddenly in surprise as the rock beneath his foot crumbled away, leaving him dangling by his fingertips fifty feet up a sheer cliff.

At the sound of Legolas' distressed cry, Thranduil looked down, his own heart lurching in concern. His son was holding on, but just barely, about ten feet below, and there were too many orcs to even hope to fight off.  _It looks as though we will have to improvise,_ ion nîn _,_ he thought with a private, wry smirk. And he would have to do something very stupid.

Already standing on the very edge of the window, Thranduil stepped backward and let himself fall. The descent was swift, and it did not go exactly as planned. He clipped Legolas on the way down, causing the Prince to tumble down along with him in a heap. Contrary to popular belief, elves do not always land on their feet, despite their impressive balance and battle dexterity.

The two of them landed in a dusty heap at the bottom of the fortress' wall, and the painful impact of his back hitting the ground made Thranduil's vision flicker black with the shrieking agony coming from his already-reopened wounds. He panted shallowly for breath, the wind knocked out of him by the fall, though it might have been Legolas landing on top of him that made it difficult to draw breath. Thranduil couldn't bring himself to move for a moment, shocks of agony shooting through his back and up his spine, and with each throbbing pulse came a moment where he thought he might faint, dizzying blackness still lapping at the edges of his sight.

Legolas sat up with a groan, rolling off of Thranduil's chest and pulling himself stiffly to his feet. His body ached from hitting the ground, and there was a shooting pain in his left shoulder every time he moved it, but now was not the time to be thinking of such things. They were still in great danger, and they could not tarry. He knelt down beside his father, urgently trying to pull Thranduil up. " _Ada_ , come on," he urged, feeling a twinge of worry at the way his father's face was pale and drawn with pain. "We cannot stop now."

Thranduil grasped Legolas' hand and sat up, blinking away the black spots in his vision as he stood, restraining a gasp of pain at how the motion pulled at his wounds. He barely heard what Legolas had said, his head still fuzzy, but he felt the urgency in his son's voice. "I hope you brought a horse," he found himself saying as he heard orcs pouring out the main gates of the fortress.

Legolas gave a brief grin. "You know me so well." He put two fingers in his mouth and let out a loud, piercing whistle, and within seconds Aduial was galloping towards them from the forest, his white coat seeming to shimmer in the gloomy predawn light. The sight of the horse was a great relief to both of them, and for a moment Thranduil believed that their plan was really going to work.

But just before Legolas could grasp Aduial's reins, the orcs were upon them in a swarm, like a crashing tide on the shore, and the horse reared up in terror, neighing and lashing out with his front hooves. Both elves leaped back to avoid the flailing hooves, and Aduial smashed the heads of several orcs in his blind frenzy.

Thranduil swore under his breath in Sindarin as he drew his blades again, gripping them tight and slashing through orc after orc despite the agony that shrieked in the muscles of his back and shoulders. He could feel blood running down his back from the reopened wounds, but there was no time to focus on the hot, sticky trail soaking his ragged tunic, nor the searing pain that clawed at him like the curved fangs of a spider sinking into his flesh, over and over with every movement he made. He had to clear a path for Legolas so that at least his son could escape, and that thought kept his focus sharp and his swords' dance deadly, the blades gleaming in the weak, cold light. He could not, would not let these monsters take his son.

But the odds were quickly shifting against them, even with Legolas' impressive fighting skills with his twin knives. There was no room to use a bow in close combat, and knife fighting took much skill and much concentration, which required the two elves to fight almost back to back in order to avoid exposing a vulnerability in form or lapse in attention. There were simply too many enemies, and the orcs were starting to close ranks around Legolas and Thranduil, surrounding them.

Thranduil could already see it happening, and he knew their hope was fading fast. They could not fight a losing battle on two fronts; they were barely holding their ground as it was. With a swift, broad slice he decapitated two orcs and shoved the bodies aside to expose an opening, his decision instantaneous. "Legolas!" he called suddenly, and the Prince pulled his knife out of the throat of an orc, swiftly turning around.

There was an instant understanding in Legolas' blue eyes as he briefly met his father's gaze, and he dashed out of the fray, swinging up onto Aduial's back without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Aduial was already impatiently stamping the ground, whinnying nervously as he itched to flee the evil of the orcs and this foul place. Legolas trusted that his father would be right behind him, ready to ride hard back to Mirkwood and to safety.

But he wasn't.

Confused, Legolas immediately scanned the battle with sharp blue eyes, spotting his father in the thick of the clash, still fighting with shocking ferocity and the ethereal grace of all the Firstborn. He could not leave without Thranduil, not after they had both fought so hard!  _We are in this together_ , he vowed silently, tugging the reins to turn Aduial back toward the battle. " _Ada_!" he shouted as he kicked the horse into a gallop, riding right into the fight and trampling any orcs in his path. "Hold on!"

The sound of Aduial's hooves against the ground was thunderous, the clash of steel on steel ringing in Legolas' ears, but his focus was entirely on Thranduil, unwilling to leave his father behind. They were so close to freedom that it was tantalizing, the forest a mere few hundred yards away, and with it their salvation. The orcs would not be able to follow them for long in the forest, for it was a territory that only the elves knew well, and Mirkwood itself did not take kindly to any intruders.

It was then that Legolas lost his focus on the battlefield, his attention given more toward the escape than anything else, and he didn't realize how terrible a mistake it was until it was almost too late. He looked up just in time to see a curved Orcish sword swinging down towards him, and his eyes went wide for a moment, left with no time to draw his knife and block.

A silver-bladed sword suddenly flashed and collided with Dagok's blade, knocking it away from Legolas with a rasping, shrieking ring of steel on steel. Thranduil stood between Dagok and Legolas, his gaze murderous as he glared at the orc, leveling the tip of his sword at the orc's chest. "If you lay a hand on my son, I will kill you where you stand," he snapped, briefly wondering why he didn't just do it anyway, and remembering that he wasn't sure he could at this point. Dagok was huge and clearly a formidable fighter, while Thranduil was wounded and exhausted already from the battle and the escape. Adrenaline kept him going, kept him from really feeling the pain of his wounds and the dizziness of exhaustion, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up.

Dagok grinned that ugly, too-wide grin of his, looking far too smug. "Is that so?" he taunted, eyes gleaming. "I know an empty threat when I see one, elf. You know you cannot win."

Thranduil just stared him down coldly, giving away nothing. He could act imposing and threatening, if nothing else, even if he was on the verge of collapse. "You're welcome to try me," he challenged in a voice laced with venom, though he knew it was a bluff. Without turning around, he addressed Legolas: "Run. Now, Legolas. Assemble the archers when you return and tell them to surround this place."

"I'm taking you with me," Legolas immediately insisted, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them, though he knew they were childish and obstinate in the face of a very dangerous situation. " _Saes, Ada…_ "

Dagok took advantage of Thranduil's momentary distraction almost immediately, snarling and lunging at him with a deadly thrust of his sword, which the Elvenking managed to dodge by a hairsbreadth, and soon the two of them were locked into a heated close-combat match. Blades flashed and clanged together, and Legolas stared helplessly, forgetting himself.

When he could get a moment's respite from the orc's pressing attacks, Thranduil suddenly turned and slapped Legolas' horse on the rump, causing the animal to whinny and bolt. There was no time for words, for the tall orc was soon upon him again, the force of their blades connecting sending shocks up Thranduil's arm. The Elvenking just grit his teeth and kept his guard up, trying not to think too much about it. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, but all he had to do was buy enough time for Legolas to escape… Once Legolas reached the forest, then nothing else mattered.

He saw Dagok's attention wander to Legolas, and Thranduil made a daring move, a tight inward thrust that threatened to eviscerate the orc if he put enough strength behind it. But there was no way he could have done it; he had not the strength to force his blade through leather armor and flesh, not deep enough to kill, and he had no intention of killing Dagok at this point. It was simply a jab to get his attention, to keep him from targeting Legolas by being a thorn in his side. "Remember who your opponent is," he hissed, even as his blade was swatted to the side by Dagok's heavy broadsword.

Dagok gave a twisted grin, more of a snarl with teeth bared, and he suddenly drew his arm back and used his heavy forearm to simply swat Thranduil aside, a blow forceful enough to knock the elf to the ground.

Thranduil hit the ground with a painful grunt, and he gasped, agony shooting through his back and shoulder. He was too dizzy to get up again, panting shallowly as he felt the adrenaline rush start to fade, the pain of his wounds returning full-force. Thranduil shut his eyes momentarily and swore under his breath; he was finished. He could only hope that he had given Legolas enough time to get away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dagok draw back the string of his great black bow and fire, the arrow whistling through the air, though he knew not of its trajectory. There was no way the orc could hit Legolas at this distance, not when the Prince was already disappearing into the trees, and Thranduil gave a small smirk when he saw Dagok scowl at the presumed miss. It was a small victory.

Dagok then turned back to Thranduil, his eyes cold with rage. Thranduil stared defiantly up at him, determined to be as much of a thorn in this orc's side as he possibly could be. He would not give Dagok the satisfaction. He was thinking of Legolas, though, and hoping silently that his horse was swift and Elbereth's light with him through the forest.

Dagok pressed a foot on top of Thranduil's chest, scowling down at him for a moment before turning to another orc. "Marshal the troops. We march to Gundabad at dawn." A smirk suddenly curled his lips. "We will have to take… precautions with this one."

Before Thranduil could wonder what that meant, there was a sudden explosion of agony in his temple, and the world went entirely black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey, guys... I'm back! I'm really sorry about the unexpected long wait, I've just been so busy these past few weeks that I couldn't get any writing in. In between college registration stuff and depression kicking my ass, I've been pretty much dead lately. But I'm getting better now, and I should be on schedule for next week! Once again, thank you all for the encouraging comments; it really makes my day to read every single one. Hope you enjoyed this chapter too! ;D
> 
> Translations:
> 
> ion nîn- my son
> 
> Saes- please
> 
> Avo drasto- don't worry


	7. Song of the Forest, part 1

_~7~_

_Song of the Forest, part 1_

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Heart pounding, blood roaring in his ears, the sound of the horse's hooves hitting the ground was like claps of thunder. The angry screams and roars of the orcs were not far behind, but Legolas didn't dare look over his shoulder. Aduial's legs were swift, carrying him toward the safety of the forest with every passing second, but Legolas couldn't bear to look back. He couldn't make himself do it, to see what was happening to his father at the hands of those damned brutes. Anger and pain and guilt surged in Legolas' heart, and he tried very hard not to think of it, of how he had failed. It was like grief rending his heart in two all over again.

Legolas gripped the reins tightly, urging Aduial on faster as he heard the snarl of wargs not far behind. This mission had been a failure, but he would not fail his father again. Once he got back to the elven stronghold, he would lead a fearsome force of Mirkwood's best warriors and raze this foul place to the ground!

They were fast approaching the trees now, and Legolas heard the wargs howl, their pack fanning out behind him in hopes of surrounding him before he reached the safety of the forest. But Aduial was too fast, and they were too close to the trees now for the strategy to work. Leaping over a gnarl of twisted roots, Aduial whinnied as they disappeared into the trees, balking as the thick canopy made it very dark. Legolas ducked to avoid being hit by a low-hanging branch, glancing over his shoulder and seeing only silhouettes of trees and a bit of pale mist.

The forest was eerily silent, which seemed strange with the warg pack that had been just behind them, but Legolas' pounding heart had not slowed. He didn't like this; there was something that just wasn't right, and he knew they could not stop now. He dug his heels into Aduial's sides again, spurring the horse onward at a gallop as they wove through trees and trampled through underbrush. He knew that they weren't out of danger yet.

An arrow suddenly whistled just past his ear, and Legolas cried out in surprise, though it was drowned out by the snarl of a warg that snapped at his leg, its teeth missing him by inches. But the warg and its rider were stopped dead by a tree the next second, smashing into the solid oak while Legolas rode onward. It was only a flash of what he could see in between darkness and snatches of moonlight visible through holes in the forest canopy, like a flickering light in a storm.

Branches and leaves whipped at Legolas' arms and face as he sped through the forest, eyes tightly shut as he crouched low on Aduial's back. He was hoping very much that the horse knew the way, and he hoped further that the horse would not put his foot in a rabbit hole and break a leg. The howling of the wargs seemed to come from all directions, and he could hear among them the harsh barking of their orc riders as well, still in pursuit of the Prince.

Legolas swore quietly to himself as he realized they were gaining on him, the wargs hot on the scent of blood he realized was still leaking profusely from a cut on his arm. They were relentless, and he knew he couldn't keep running forever. Wargs were predators, built to run long and hard to run down their prey, and even a horse like Aduial would soon tire from the breakneck pace, especially in the treacherous terrain of the forest. He fumbled for his bow and nocked an arrow, sitting up straight in the saddle and awkwardly twisting his body to try to line up a shot.

He would have to fight them off eventually, and a head-on confrontation was not something he wanted to risk. Sight was useless with as dark as it was in the forest, but for a skilled archer like Legolas, there was no need to see his target. Smirking, Legolas closed his eyes and listened intently for a split second before firing, and almost immediately he heard a high-pitched whine and a thud as a warg was killed and its rider crushed. His smirk turned to a grin, and he immediately reached for another arrow, thinking this would be quick and expedient.

At that moment Legolas heard the high-pitched whistle of an arrow being fired from somewhere to his left, and the next second he felt a stab of blinding pain and a dull  _thud_  as the arrow embedded itself in his shoulder, the shaft piercing deep and knocking the breath out of him. He let out a strangled cry, dropping his own arrow and barely holding onto the bow. He panted through clenched teeth, clutching at his shoulder as throbs of pain radiated from the wound. It was deep and already bleeding, warm trickles of blood soaking his tunic alarmingly quickly, and the damned wargs were starting to catch up again…

Legolas could only clutch at Aduial's reins and urge him faster, but suddenly the warg was taken out by a lashing tree branch, a heavy maple limb that immediately snapped the beast's neck while the roots eagerly strangled the orc. Realizing what had happened, the Prince could have laughed with joy if he wasn't breathless with pain at the moment. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Yavanna for her trees' protection, and he smiled to himself as he heard the other warg crash and yelp as the tree's roots strangled it.

 _The forest is kind today_ , he thought with a tired, relieved smile, silently grateful that he had at least some luck. Now all he had to do was get back to the palace and give them Thranduil's message. His shoulder was throbbing fiercely, and the jarring motion of the horse sent a sharp bolt of pain through his entire arm every time Aduial's hooves impacted the ground, but Legolas tried not to pay it any mind. He didn't have the time nor the resources to stop and try to deal with it now, and anything he could do might only make it worse.

Legolas was no healer, but he knew that removing the arrow shaft would take skill and time he didn't have, and even if he did pull it out, the bleeding could and would be deadly, especially so far from a healing hall. Besides, how was he supposed to reach the damn thing when it was in his back? He just grit his teeth and tried to ignore how dizzy he was feeling, a sick feeling creeping up in his stomach and a muddled haze settling over his mind.

Aduial had slowed to a trot, flanks heaving in exhaustion and his coat lathered with sweat, but Legolas hardly noticed that they had wandered away from the path some time ago. He was too preoccupied with trying to keep his own hands from shaking, his vision blurring in and out. He shook his head angrily, trying to clear it, but the motion only made him dizzier, and he groaned softly, feeling sicker than before.

Legolas put a hand to his burning forehead, vaguely realizing that the arrow shaft must have been poisoned, and that was why he was feeling so sick. Orcs were notorious for doing such things, and it took only a scratch from one of their blades or a graze from an arrow to incapacitate a man or even an elf. Untreated, it could be fatal.

The world seemed to tilt strangely, and Legolas swayed in the saddle, alarmed. He tried to steady himself but found his limbs feeling clumsy and leaden, and he fell from the horse's back suddenly, landing with a jarring thud in the dirt. He hissed through gritted teeth at the pulse of agony it sent through his shoulder, the arrow shaft still embedded deep in his flesh while blood oozed steadily from the wound.

Fuzzy blackness lapped at the edges of Legolas' vision, and his own breathing seemed loud in his ears as he lay there in a hazy, feverish trance. He couldn't find the strength to move, his whole body feeling rubbery and very, very heavy all of a sudden. Vaguely he thought of home, knowing he needed to get back but somehow unable to make himself actually move. Mind muddled by pain and fever, Legolas couldn't think in between the two of them, and he watched dazedly as black spots swirled in his vision. Darkness was swallowing him up like an endless, fuzzy blanket, the world getting less and less solid around him.

His last thoughts were of home, of his father and Lainathiel and Raenor, but the brief image of them in his mind was drowned by endless, suffocating darkness as he finally gave in, slipping into a feverish sleep.

~oOo~

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_There were voices around him, faint and whispering like wind in the trees, and Legolas couldn't be sure if they were real or if he was only dreaming. They spoke in hushed, urgent tones, though he couldn't make out the words they said, only their intangible, fleeting intonations and breathy whispers. His sleep was feverish and fitful, though he couldn't seem to wake himself from it like he had always been able to._

_He had strange dreams, ones he couldn't remember the next moment but kept playing themselves over and over again in his mind. He saw the fire again, heard screams and terrible, pleading cries for help, but this time he was burning with them, swallowed up by the flames and suffocated, every part of his body engulfed with bright, burning pain. His mother's hand sometimes reached out for him, but he could never reach her, and her flesh melted away with her screams._

_Legolas dreamed he was a wolf, bounding across an unfamiliar plain on four strong legs, a chilly winter wind howling across the open land. The earth was hard and cold beneath his feet, and he could smell the cold air moving in from the looming mountains, whipping at his shaggy fur. He opened his mouth to pant, stopping at the crest of a hill and staring out over the brown land, the grey sky overhead spitting snow. He knew his brothers were near, that his pack was never far behind. He tipped back his head and let out a low howl, the cry echoing across the sky and dancing on the winter winds._

_Four voices answered him with their own mournful howls, each a different pitch and a different tone, their answers carried on the wind to his sharp ears. They understood, their voices said, and they would come to their brother's aid._

_A powerful longing seized Legolas' heart of a sudden, and he tipped his head back to howl again, the sound mournful and low. His pack was not far, but the warmth of their fur and the gleam of their eyes was nowhere to be found, and the vast distance of the barren lands seemed so very… empty. Legolas bounded down the slope of the hill, swift of foot and keen of scent, his fierce heart set on finding his pack._

_He ran and he ran further still, white fur whipping in the wind and jaws parted as his powerful lungs worked, his breath billowing in silver clouds in front of him. The great barren land seemed endless, yet still he kept running, though from where or to what he did not quite know._

Legolas awoke with a start, breath stuttering as his chest heaved, surrounded by a dappling of shadows and dim light. He was lying on his back, staring up at a woven canopy of leaves that kept the atmosphere dim and shadowy. The vestiges of the dream still echoed in his mind, and he felt a phantom ache in his limbs and his lungs, like he had been running in the cold. He swallowed, finding his throat dry and parched as he started to sit up, though he stopped and hissed softly when a sudden pain shot through his shoulder at the motion.

A shadow moved next to him, and a hand pressed gently on his chest, the touch cool against his warm skin. "Stay still," said a quiet voice with the strangest Silvan accent he had ever heard. "You'll only aggravate the wounds by moving."

Legolas blinked, not quite knowing what to say as he allowed himself to lay back slightly, relieving most of the pressure on his bandaged shoulder. "…who are you?" he asked after a moment, though the words came out in a hoarse whisper.

The elf wordlessly handed him a skin of water, helping him to sit up before he gulped down most of the cool liquid. She watched him carefully for any signs of fever or dizziness, staring intently from the shadows. She wanted to make sure he was fully lucid before she explained anything; it would be useless to repeat herself. "How do you feel?" she asked finally, her voice soft.

Legolas looked at her, a bit disconcerted by how intensely the elleth was staring at him. At least, her voice was feminine. Her appearance, with regards to her facial structure and her manner of dress, were very much androgynous, even for an elf. Meeting her gaze with his own blue eyes, he replied, "Better. But I want to know where I am." This was like no elf dwelling he had ever seen before, and he was certainly not back home.

She just stared at him for a moment, one blue and one brown eye trained on him with equal intensity. "You could have died, you know," she said in a voice that was calm and matter-of-fact, like she was speaking about the weather or the quality of bowstrings these days. "There was orc poison on that arrow. Powerful poison."

Legolas sighed. "I know that," he said, slightly frustrated that she would not answer his questions. "I was pursued on my… mission." He tried to read her face, but she was expressionless, seeming only mildly interested in his reaction to her words. "Where am I?" he asked again. "And who are you?"

The dark-haired elleth sat back on her haunches, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her delicately pointed ear. "You are at the base of the Mountains of Mirkwood," she responded finally. "A group of our hunters found you not far from here, collapsed and badly poisoned by an orc arrow."

There was a pause, and Legolas didn't know if he was supposed to respond or not. But she continued, and he kept silent. "You are a Sinda." It was not a question. She could tell it at a glance; only those with Vanyarin blood had such golden blond hair, and there were no Silvan elves with such heritage. "So I cannot help but wonder what you are doing so far from home."

Legolas stared back at her, unsure of what to say. "I am," he affirmed after a moment. "But the Sindar have lived here in the forest in harmony with the Silvan people for thousands of years. I don't see what significance that holds to anything."

The elleth's mismatched eyes glimmered with what might have been amusement, and for a moment it seemed like she might crack a smile. "Tell me, does King Oropher still think he holds dominion over all the forest?"

Legolas was confused for a moment, his brows knitting. "You are mistaken. My grandfather has been dead for thousands of years. It was before I was even born that he was slain in a terrible war."

This time it was her turn to look surprised, though she hid it well. "…it appears that we have much to learn of our kin," she mused quietly, almost to herself. Before Legolas could ask her again, overwhelmed by curiosity, she spoke again. "My name is Melwasúl. Welcome to the home of the Avari."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today because I've been drowning in online paperwork for school lately, and this is all I could get written. I really wanted to make this longer, but unfortunately I just didn't have the time x_x. But I didn't want to leave you guys hanging again, so here it is! Thank you again for all your words of encouragement, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!


	8. Song of the Forest, part 2

_~8~_

_Song of the Forest, part 2_

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Lainathiel opened the door to the Council chamber with a creak, entering the room with her eyes downcast. It was quiet, mostly, with the murmur of soft voices speaking in hushed tones, but even those immediately quieted when she returned. Glancing up to face them, her countenance was grave. "There is no sign of the Prince," she relayed the news in a solemn, grim tone. "He has not returned."

There was a soft, collective sigh of disappointment, though their discontent was not with Lainathiel. She and a patrol of guards had tracked Legolas' trail as far as Dol Guldur before they turned back, unwilling to risk a skirmish with orcs when said orcs held their King captive. It was a precarious situation, one that was made ever the more unstable with the disappearance of Legolas. Raenor had informed the council of the Prince's actions and his intentions, but there was nothing any of them could do now except wait for his return.

Raenor shook his head slowly. "I worry for him," he began. "But there is nothing we can do. Our patrols have scoured the woods as far as fifty leagues south of here, but there is no trail, no tracks, nothing."

The four members of the King's Council stood around the rectangular table in the center of the room, their faces anywhere from worried to agitated. They were Thranduil's most trusted advisors, and in the absence of both the royals, they were also in charge of the upkeep of the kingdom's affairs. It was a less daunting task with four people rather than one, but they did not always agree on a course of action. This was to be expected from such a varied group of elves, but it was no less tiresome to have the same arguments over and over again.

Aerendil had never been a warrior, but he was one of the best tacticians Mirkwood had ever known, and his wisdom made him a valuable voice in decisions of importance. He had served Thranduil's father before him as an advisor, and Oropher had valued his counsel just as Thranduil did now.

As the most experienced healer in Mirkwood, Eirien was the head of the healing halls, though her temperament was not to be trifled with. She had been a warrior in her youth some two and a half thousand years ago, but a devastating injury to the tendons in her elbow had left her unable to wield a bow and unable to perform her duties as captain of the archers. Her foray into healing had been out of compassion; she wanted to heal others to keep what had happened to her from happening to any other young warriors who had the misfortune to get themselves injured. Her voice provided valuable insight from within the walls of the elven stronghold, and she was strong-willed but sensible, seeking compromise over conflict most times.

The Silvan lord Elduin was neither a warrior nor any kind of fighter, but he was a diplomat, and his skill with words was a valuable asset when it came to negotiations. His quick wit and persuasive charm had earned him the nickname Silvertongue, affectionate among his friends and not so much so among the tradesmen of Esgaroth and Erebor.

Miredhion son of Tassarion was the last and most sharp-tongued of the Council, a Noldorin transplant to the forest a few thousand years back. His father had married a Silvan woman and come to Mirkwood to live among her people once her child was born, but Miredhion was more of a Noldo than even his father had been. He was keenly intellectual and had eyes like an eagle for small details, but he had a reputation for being rather frosty towards his peers. He had little patience for those who could not hold their own in a verbal spar, and he could often be seen frowning, blue eyes cool and reprimanding towards seemingly everyone and everything. But his presence on the Council was important, even if he was often at odds with their Sindarin king.

Eirien's tired sigh broke the silence, and she glanced at Lainathiel with a solemn face. "Thank you for the news," she said sincerely, though her words were heavy with the gravity of the situation as she addressed all those present. "But we cannot wait for the Prince forever. If we wait too long, it could be a disaster."

"But what can we do?" asked Aerendil gravely, his flint-colored eyes roaming over each face in the room, as if searching for an answer in their expression. "Our hands are tied. Thranduil is captured and Legolas is Elbereth knows where."

"Are we to run around squawking like headless hens?" Miredhion asked bitingly, his tone impatient. "We cannot dally around waiting for them to find a way back to us. The only way to preserve this kingdom is to take action." He was not famous for his patience, nor for his tact.

"And what is  _your_  plan, then?" Eirien retorted sharply, turning her reproachful gaze on him. "You find it very easy to criticize and complain, Miredhion, but you offer us no help with it."

But before the conversation could devolve further into an argument, Lainathiel spoke up. "Prince Legolas had planned to send a letter to Imladris," she blurted, almost by accident. "I was to bear the message to Lord Elrond."

All the council members looked at her, mildly surprised. "For what purpose?" inquired Elduin, somewhat skeptical. He knew that the King's relationship with the Noldorin lords was businesslike at best, and the two had little contact otherwise.

"To ask for his aid, of course," Lainathiel answered, her tone respectful but insistent. "It would certainly help if we had some assistance in these matters."

Elduin frowned slightly. Being a Silvan elf himself, he was not overeager to ask for help from outsiders, especially ones who were so distant. "I do not know if that would be wise. Mirkwood matters are our own, and the intrusion of foreigners would be more of a hindrance than a help."

Aerendil's expression was thoughtful, and he did not seem so averse to the idea. "Do not be so quick to dismiss aid, Elduin," he remarked. "We may very well need it if this situation takes a nasty turn."

"And the elven council will have noticed King Thranduil's absence by now," Lainathiel added in, though she glanced down apologetically when she realized she had spoken out of turn. "…We at least owe it to him to explain."

Eirien nodded. "She has a point," she conceded, glancing at the three other Council members. "It is important to remain in communication with our Noldorin kin, especially in times such as these."

Aerendil nodded his approval as well. "Let her go," he agreed. "We could not find another messenger so well-prepared."

"Very well," Elduin conceded after a moment of thought. At least now they had some kind of plan. "Depart as soon as you can. There is no time to waste."

Lainathiel held back a broad grin, though she couldn't help but smile. Maybe there was some way she could help fix this mess after all. "Yes, my lord." She glanced at Raenor, silently asking for permission to be dismissed. He was, officially, her commanding officer, after all.

"You are relieved of your patrol duties for this journey, Lainathiel," he said without missing a beat, his expression characteristically stoic. "You may go. Leave immediately, and take the fastest horse in the stables."

"Yes, my lord," Lainathiel replied hurriedly, giving a short bow before she disappeared through the door again, going to gather supplies and saddle her horse. She had a long journey ahead of her.

~oOo~

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Legolas stared at Melwasúl for a second, momentarily surprised. "The Avari?" he repeated. "They still reside here?" He had always known, he supposed, that they existed and that they still lived a mostly solitary life somewhere in Middle Earth, but very little was spoken of them. Mostly because no one ever saw them, and they had virtually no involvement in the affairs of even the elves, let alone the rest of Middle Earth.

"Of course we do," Melwasúl replied dryly, not at all surprised that this clueless Sinda had no knowledge of her people. Very few did, after all, for the Avari did not wish to be found and preferred to be left to the company of their forest. "Did you think we had simply disappeared into thin air?"

Legolas blinked. "I… No, I did not think that," he said after a moment. "...Forgive me, but I am very confused. Why did you help me?" He didn't speak aloud the rest of his curiosities. Taking things a little at a time would be for the best, he decided. To err on the side of caution was better than to be too brash, from a diplomatic perspective, and Legolas had gotten quite good at that, what with being the crown Prince of Mirkwood and all.

Melwasúl's gaze shifted to the side, and she looked briefly uncomfortable. "You would have died otherwise, and we are not in the practice of leaving innocent elves to die."  _Even if they are not one of our own,_  she added silently. Bringing an outsider into the reclusive realm of her people had been a risk, but elves were few enough in number as it was without letting more die needlessly.

"And for that you have my thanks," Legolas said sincerely, inclining his head respectfully. "But… I must be on my way soon. It is urgent that I return home as soon as possible."

Immediately Melwasúl's mismatched eyes pinned him with a stern look. "You are not going anywhere with your shoulder in that condition," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You've only just woken up after nearly two days, and your fever broke only last night."

"Two days?" Legolas' eyes went wide in alarm, and his body stiffened as he sat up straight. He winced at the twinge that went through his shoulder but quickly recovered, ignoring the stiffness and aches in his muscles. "I cannot afford to waste any more time! Where is my horse?"

"Your horse is well-cared for," she replied, though a light push with her palm against his chest was enough to make him nearly fall back onto his elbows. "But you must rest, just as he is doing now."

"You do not understand," Legolas insisted, starting to get impatient as he looked at her imploringly. "My father is held captive by the orcs of Dol Guldur, and the only chance I have of saving him now is to get back to the Mirkwood palace and get help!"

But Melwasúl seemed mostly indifferent, her reaction one of confusion rather than concern. "Dol Guldur? Orcs? There are no such creatures in our forest. We have seen rogue wargs and bats but naught else."

Legolas sighed impatiently, making a helpless gesture with his hands. "The orcs, they occupy the old fortress atop Amon Lanc," he explained after a moment, impatient. "It is a dark place, full of ruin and evil magic."

Melwasúl gave a soft sigh, shaking her head slightly. "If all that is true, then there is little chance that your father is alive now," she said with a glance at Legolas, her gaze sympathetic for a brief moment. But then her expression returned to a cool neutral, and she looked him in the eyes. "There is nothing that you can do for him now. Rest and let your wounds heal."

Such a grave and final pronouncement hit a little too close to home for Legolas, and it made him prickle with indignation. "My father is not dead!" he retorted sharply. "I saw him! I went to Dol Guldur, and…" He trailed off, remembering the disastrous outcome of their escape plan and feeling a sick dread settle in the pit of his stomach. After what had happened, and what he had heard… The orcs were marching to Gundabad, and Elbereth only knew what that meant for Thranduil.

Legolas shook his head again suddenly, refusing to let himself think such thoughts. "No. I will not believe it," he said steadfastly, looking at Melwasúl. "Not until I have seen his body with my own eyes." It was a challenge to his own shadowed doubts, really, and saying it out loud helped to reassure him.

The elleth wanted to roll her eyes, but she refrained. This one was so needlessly stubborn, she thought. Especially when he needed to be resting. He had almost died from poison just a day earlier and he was already picking an argument? Although, she supposed, the Sindar always had been rather bullheaded. "Whatever you wish to believe," she said simply. Then there was a pause, and she realized something. "…what is your name?"

The Prince just looked at her for a moment, somewhat exasperated that she hadn't even been listening to what he said earlier. "Legolas," he replied. "Legolas Thranduilion."

Melwasúl gave a short pause, then nodded. "Well then, Legolas," she said, rising to her feet, which were bare of shoes or leggings. "I must go now, but I will be back."

She started to leave, pushing aside the curtain draped over the entranceway, but Legolas hastily stood and touched her arm, ignoring the pain in his stiff muscles. "Wait," he said quickly. "I am coming with you. I will not be a bother."

She frowned. "You need to be resting," she insisted, hoping to get him off her back. She needed to take this news to Celebrynd… If Thranduil's son was in the heart of their haven, Celebrynd would want to know, she was certain. "Lay down and don't strain yourself. I'll be back very soon." All of what she had heard from Legolas was rather confusing, and Celebrynd would be able to clear it up. The last time they had met with the Sindarin elves, Oropher had been king and his son Thranduil only an elfling… Had it really been so long and so much changed?

"I will go mad if I have to sit here and do nothing any longer," Legolas protested, hoping to gain her sympathy. "I have been lying down for two days already. I will be fine." It was mostly the truth; his shoulder was the least of his worries at the moment. Besides, he wanted to see what the home of the Avari was like, and a little information gathering never hurt.

Melwasúl rolled her eyes. "Very well. But stay close to me, or you will get lost," she warned as she let go of the curtain covering the doorway, turning away and not waiting for Legolas to follow.

Legolas swept the curtain aside and made to follow her in a hurry, but he was caught by surprise by what he saw outside. They were standing on a platform built quite literally into the tree, or rather from the tree as its branches curled around the base to support the elegantly crafted house that wrapped around the tree's massive trunk. The whole structure was built around the tree, an almost circular home made of green wood and broad leaves woven together to keep the roof and the inside dry. It was all made from parts of the forest, Legolas noted with awe, and unlike the stone halls of the Elvenking's palace, built into the rock for fortification and defensibility, these dwellings were up in the air, open and free in a way he had never seen before. They were cozy within, but standing on the open platform outside the small dwelling gave Legolas a bird's-eye view of the forest, and it was an entirely new experience for him despite years of climbing trees before this.

Melwasúl looked amused, her blue and brown eyes glimmering with silent laughter. "Are you coming?" she asked, lips quirking up in a smile as she raised an eyebrow. "There will be plenty of time to stare later."

Legolas looked only a little embarrassed at being caught gawking, and he chuckled softly as he followed her across a bridge made of winding, twisting branches all woven together to create a sturdy walkway, wide enough for three to walk abreast. "I have never seen such a place before," he admitted.

"Of course you haven't," Melwasúl said with a soft chuckle of amusement, though her smile seemed cryptic. "This is why we chose to live here. We do not much like to be bothered with visitors."

Legolas glanced around, seeing similar tree dwellings all around them, connected by bridges or with staircases that wound around the tree's broad trunk and led to the ground. "How do you do it?" he asked, unable to help but be curious. Even among the elves of Lothlórien and Imladris, he had never seen such a thing.

Her smile became even more cryptic, if that was possible, and she gave a quiet laugh. "We ask," she said simply. When Legolas looked at her in confusion, she continued. "We ask the trees, and they help us make our homes among them. We sing to them, and tell them our stories, and they tell us theirs in return." Upon reaching the platform on the other side of the bridge, Melwasúl took a turn toward a downward staircase, pausing for a moment beside the tree's broad trunk.

Legolas stayed close, blinking in confusion. Though he knew that the trees certainly had voices, and that the Silvan people were sometimes able to commune with them, this was on an entirely new level. "I am afraid I do not understand," he replied after a moment.

She laughed at this, which surprised him. "I know," she chuckled, her laughter almost musical. "You would not understand unless you had seen it."

Legolas frowned, only further confused by this. "You answer my questions with things I can make no answer of at all." He followed Melwasúl down the staircase, watching her long, unbraided dark hair sway back and forth with her steps.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, blue eye gleaming in cryptic amusement. At the bottom of the steps, she turned and tapped a finger between his eyes. "There is much you do not see," she commented. "And if you are lucky, perhaps you will learn to open your eyes."

Legolas resisted the urge to sigh. Did all Avari have a habit of speaking in riddles? It was like talking to a wizard! He didn't bother to reply as he stepped off the last step of the staircase, his feet sinking slightly into the soft, peaty earth. He followed Melwasúl but took the time to observe their surroundings as he went, unable to help but be fascinated by it all. There were homes on the ground level as well, and elves, some in deerskins and some in long geometrically-patterned tunics and shimmering beaded jewelry, milled about the secluded forest with a sense of calm purpose. Their voices were soft but their eyes were sharp and observant, and none of them missed Legolas walking past, with his white-blond hair and green Mirkwood tunic. They spoke an odd dialect of Sindarin, he noticed, not too much different from his own native tongue but with some words and constructions he didn't recognize. He could understand them well enough, but some of the things they said to each other were a mystery to him.

He watched  _ellith_  with half their hair in elaborate topknot braids and the other half flowing loose pass by with woven baskets balanced on their heads or on their backs, murmuring amongst themselves. Elflings scurried about with wide, wary eyes, darting in and out of trees and bushes as they played, barefoot and often only clothed from the waist down. They sometimes giggled and always disappeared whenever Legolas made eye contact, and the Prince merely smiled back at them when they stared, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity. But they never spoke, merely darted off like shadows with long dark hair.

Melwasúl made a sudden turn right, and Legolas had to quickly stop his sightseeing to follow her into the start of a narrow but neat path, bordered by more trees that seemed to cast a forest-colored light over the trail. "Done staring yet?" she asked without looking over her shoulder.

Legolas was about to give an answer, but he was abruptly cut off as Melwasúl stopped suddenly with one hand held up, and his reply was quickly forgotten in his confusion. The elleth turned to face him with a serious, unwavering stare.

"You are to show due respect to our leader," she said firmly, mismatched eyes trained on Legolas' own.

"Your king?" Legolas inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I do not know him."

Melwasúl shook her head and tugged Legolas through a curtain of willow branches and into a clearing bathed in warm forest-colored light, while an elf and an imposing sable antelope stood in its center, surrounded by a corona of light from behind.

"Celebrynd is not a king."

Legolas looked at the elf and the large animal for a moment, caught slightly off-guard. The tall, slender elf before him had short-cropped hair, slightly curly but golden as the sun's rays, with an elegant circlet of leaves and autumn berries settled atop the curls. Celebrynd's pale skin seemed to glow in the light of the sun from behind, amber-colored eyes brilliant and smoldering like the embers of a fire flecked with gold. The elf's gaze seemed to look straight into Legolas' own soul, like a hawk staring down a mouse from the sky above, until at last the thin pink lips curved up into a smile that was both knowing and silently laughing.

"Legolas Thranduilion," said Celebrynd with a fluid gesture of one pale hand, which was tattooed with intricate gold lines, eyes at once glimmering and cold. "I have been expecting you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other half of last chapter is here, lol. I know some of you were looking forward to Thranduil's POV, but I couldn't just leave poor Legolas hanging with just half a chapter. But hey, next week's chapter is going to have some major events happening! Thank you all for your continued support, though; it makes my day to see all your comments and your feedback! Hope you enjoyed reading!


	9. A Long Way From Home

_~9~_

_A Long Way From Home_

_._

_._

_._

 

Thranduil sat huddled under the tree, his back against the bark as rain poured down from overhead in heavy sheets, soaking him to the skin and making the ground soft and marshy. The occasional rumble of thunder was audible in the distance, but it was never close by, and it didn’t do much to disturb the masses of orcs camped near the edge of the forest, though their displeasure was audible in their growls and guttural swears.

 

The heavy shackles around Thranduil’s wrists chafed, and he was so cold he was almost shivering in the pouring rain, making it useless to try to sleep or get any sort of rest. He sighed quietly and leaned back against the tree, feeling cold raindrops splash onto his face and run down his cheeks. At least it served to wash off most of the blood, though his head still ached from being knocked unconscious.

 

He wasn’t sure how many days it had been at this point; it could have been one or two or three, but the head wound had made his sense of time very fuzzy since they had left Dol Guldur. Being on the road as the orcs’ prisoner wasn’t much better than being in the fortress as their prisoner, but at least he could be out of that damn rat-infested cell. He had deduced from listening to the orcs’ chatter that their eventual destination would be Gundabad, though it was uncertain how long that journey would take, and that gave Thranduil a slight ray of hope. Such a large group of orcs would move slowly, and that would give him time to perhaps find some method of slipping away without detection and hiding in the forest until they moved on.

 

It was a bit of a long shot, but it was all Thranduil had at the moment. The details would have to wait until he found an opportunity, he reasoned, and it was to his advantage that he knew these forests like the back of his hand. But of course Dagok made sure that Thranduil was never left without a guard, even if he believed he had beaten most of the fight out of the elf. He was going to prove Dagok wrong, of course, and he only wished he could have the satisfaction of seeing the look on the orc’s face when he found out his prize had slipped through his fingers.

 

Thranduil reached up with a clank of chains to unclasp his tattered, soaking wet cloak with a sigh, letting it fall from his shoulders to pool around the spot where he was sitting. It wasn’t doing him much good at this point, anyway. The storm didn’t seem to be letting up, either, and he was mildly concerned that he might drown if he fell asleep in this deluge.

 

He immediately tensed at the sound of footsteps splashing clumsily nearby, aware of the presence that came with them. Their gait was too heavy, too clumsy to be an elf; but, oddly, too light to be an orc. The source of the footsteps settled itself directly in front of him, kneeling in the mud with a squelch, and Thranduil was wary but curious. “…what do you want?” he asked in the Common Tongue, voice low.

 

“I’m here to help you,” said the Man in a hushed tone, though his voice was husky, and Thranduil pictured him with a shaggy beard and hair, as Men were known to have.

 

Thranduil couldn’t help but be skeptical. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he said with only a hint of cynicism, though his tone was not entirely dismissive. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

“I know,” the Man replied, sounding hurried, and the elf could feel his urgent gaze. “But you don’t have a lot of choices right now, and neither do I. My name is Gareth; and some of my people are in the same situation you are.”

 

Thranduil kept his head down, though, listening to the rain pattering on the leaves of the trees. “All I have is your word on that,” he said coolly. “But if that is true, then why are you coming to me? As far as you know, I am just as much your enemy as they are.” He didn’t know quite what to think at this point, more confused than anything else. Why would a human offer his help to an elf he had never met before? It was a bit suspicious, though Thranduil had to admit that his current situation couldn’t really get much worse.

 

“Because I think we can help each other,” Gareth said in a low, conspiratory tone. “And I know you hate those orcs more than you hate someone like me.”

 

“Perhaps you are right,” said Thranduil, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “And perhaps you are wrong.” He didn’t know this Gareth’s intentions just yet, and he was unwilling to take the chance that the man might be lying. In his current state, he wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight if the situation took a turn for the worse.

 

Gareth seemed to become frustrated, letting out a breath through his nose. “Don’t you want to escape from here?” he asked urgently. “We’re a bit short on time.”

 

“Then leave while you still have the chance,” replied the elf without hesitation. Thranduil had no reason to trust Gareth, and he thought he would rather take his chances with the orcs rather than humans. Orcs were easier to outwit. “Go. Before you wake the orcs with your babbling.”

 

“Alright then,” the man acquiesced with a sigh. “I can see we’re getting nowhere with this.”

 

Somewhere, an owl hooted in the trees, causing both of them to stiffen. It was hard to startle an elf, but this was a bit of a unique and vulnerable situation for Thranduil, who was not accustomed to such things. The sound was not unusual, though Thranduil noticed that change in the man’s demeanor immediately.

 

“I have to go now,” said Gareth in a hurried whisper as he stood up with a rustle of his cloak and the sound of his boots in the grass, already disappearing. His gait was purposeful, almost impatient. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. Good luck, my friend. And don’t do anything foolish.”

 

Thranduil wasn’t quite sure what Gareth could have meant by that, so he just ignored the Man instead, listening to his footsteps fade away. _I might say the same to you._

 

~oOo~

 

Thranduil didn't attempt to sleep for the remainder of that night, instead listening to the drizzling rain until it began to let up around dawn, when the camp finally began to stir. He listened to the grunts and growls of the orcs, the irritated whines and snarls of wargs, and the sound of marshy footsteps in the now-saturated ground. It was still early, the orcs still drowsy with sleep and drink, and the air was cool and damp from the recent rains.

 

“Bloody lucky we didn’t all drown in that rain,” muttered an orc nearby, his footsteps squelching in the mud as he picked up tent materials and clanging pots and pans.

 

“Damn right,” grunted another orc. “Dagok’s out of his mind if he thinks we’ll make it to Gundabad in a fortnight.”

 

“A fortnight? There’s no bloody way!” the first orc snorted. “And what are we gonna do with _that_?”

 

Thranduil could feel their eyes on him, and he pretended to look disinterested, as if he hadn’t been listening at all. Drawing attention was the last thing he needed right now. He was still thinking about his encounter with the mysterious man last night, wondering how this Gareth had found him and why he was really here. No man would risk being in any kind of proximity to an army of orcs without a very good reason, and the rescue of an elf he’d never met did not seem a valid reason. Thranduil had a suspicion that there was something more going on here, though he couldn’t guess at what.

 

The sound of heavy footsteps in the mud pulled the elf king from his reverie, and he tensed, recognizing Dagok’s long strides and heavy steps. He didn’t bother to look up, refusing to give the orc the reaction he wanted. “You’ll not make it to Gundabad in less than six weeks in this weather,” he said coolly, hoping to catch the orc captain off his guard. “Does the forest frighten you so?” _It should_ , he thought darkly.

 

A deep snarl rumbled from Dagok’s throat. “It seems that spider venom has not dulled the sharpness of your tongue, elf,” he growled. Then he let out a chuckle from behind his jagged teeth, seeming smug. “But your sight is another matter.”

 

Thranduil bit back the scathing retort he had on the tip of his tongue. Of course Dagok had come to gloat. “You would know as well as any,” he said coldly, not appreciating the orc dredging up those memories. Bastard.

 

Dagok reached down and hauled the elf to his feet, using one huge hand to tilt Thranduil’s head back and look into his eyes, which were no longer clear and blue but cloudy and pale, staring sightlessly past Dagok’s head. “How the mighty have fallen,” the orc grinned, his voice taunting. He released Thranduil with a shove that sent the elf stumbling back a few steps before finding his balance.

 

“You would not have done this were you not afraid,” Thranduil said in a low voice, a challenging edge to the words. “Creatures of the dark always fear those of the light.”

 

“You know not of what you speak,” Dagok sneered. “Your forest is tainted with darkness so thick that it whispers even to you, elf. Spiders spin webs so thick your archers cannot shoot through them. Your kingdom is crumbling, and yet you claim that darkness must fear light?” He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Pathetic.”

 

Thranduil speared Dagok with what he hoped was a convincing glare, blindness be damned. “You are a coward by nature, a viper in the grass, and that is why you run. You stand no chance against the elves of Mirkwood.” He was intentionally provoking the orc, even if he knew it was unwise. He refused to be cowed into silence by some brute like Dagok. If this orc thought he could tame the Elvenking, he was dead wrong.

 

Dagok spat some unintelligible curse in Orcish, enraged, and lashed out quicker than would have been expected of an orc his size, backhanding Thranduil hard enough to send the elf staggering back several steps.

 

However, this did end up being for the best, as an arrow suddenly whizzed past the spot where Thranduil had been standing only moments before and speared another orc through the neck. Briefly stunned, the other orcs, including Dagok, merely stared as a gush of black blood poured down the orc’s front, watching him collapse to the ground with a last death gurgle.

 

More arrows began flying from the trees, and the sudden onslaught spurred the orcs into action. “Don’t just stand there!” roared Dagok, already unsheathing his sword. “Get your weapons, you maggots! Kill them!!”

 

The orcs scrambled to comply, and the camp was plunged into chaos in a matter of seconds. Arrows flew from every direction, and screams mixed with roars pierced the air among the cacophony of clashing weapons and stampeding footfalls. Heart pounding and adrenaline rushing, a part of Thranduil longed to join in the fray, but all he could do was dodge arrows and remain out of the way, weaponless and sightless. The din of battle was disorienting, and it was all he could do to keep his wits about him, hoping as he felt his way from tree to tree that he would be able to slip away whilst the orcs were preoccupied.

 

Thranduil hadn’t the faintest idea of who would be foolish enough to attack the orc army head-on like this, but it was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to pass up. He heard no elven voices in the fray, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the attackers’ strategy, quite unlike any elven warriors. As much as he had hoped for a well-armed Mirkwood patrol to happen upon them, it was exceedingly unlikely. But just who would be brave enough—or rather foolish enough—to antagonize an army of orcs? It was like throwing stones at a nest of Mirkwood spiders.

 

Hoofbeats suddenly skidded to a stop just in front of him, and the whinny of a horse made Thranduil nearly jump out of his skin, heart leaping into his throat.

 

“When I told you not to do anything foolish,” came a familiar human voice, “this is not what I had in mind.” It was Gareth astride the horse, and Thranduil had never been so relieved to meet a human in his entire immortal life.

 

“This was your doing, not mine,” Thranduil reminded him pointedly, silently pleased that he was even able to get the words out of his mouth, given how scrambled his brain felt at the moment. Without his sight, the noise of battle seemed overwhelming, and it was difficult to draw his attention away from the cacophony of screams.

 

“Let’s argue about it later,” Gareth said quickly, and he reached down to grab Thranduil by the arm, pulling him up onto the horse. “We can’t keep the orcs distracted forever, and if we don’t hurry we’ll lose our cover!” He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the beast took off at a gallop, heading towards the safety of the thicker woods.

 

Soon they were joined by the rest of the fighters, both on foot and on horseback, and as Thranduil listened to their voices and their footfalls he deduced there were shockingly few of them. Perhaps fifty men at the most, attacking legions of orcs? It didn't make sense, unless they were willing to take the risk of antagonizing the orcs in order to gain something. What that something was, though, Thranduil couldn’t guess.

 

Once they reached the dense inner forest, only sparsely mapped with trails, any pursuers had ceased their efforts, and the horses slowed to a trot, allowing everyone to catch their breath. With the adrenaline from the fight slowly fading, Thranduil dimly realized how exhausted he was, and his wounds ached fiercely even as he fought to shut out the pain.

 

“Everyone alright?” Gareth called out to his men, bringing his horse around so he could survey their condition.

 

There was a chorus of general consensus from the group, with only a few grumbles from the wounded, but miraculously no one had been gravely injured or killed. It was a rare victory for these men, whose fortunes had been rather unlucky as of late.

 

Gareth let out a sigh of relief. “It seems we didn’t lose anyone,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Thank the gods.” He urged his horse forward again, briefly glancing over his shoulder at Thranduil. “You alright back there?”

 

For the moment, the elf made no reply. He was still uncertain of Gareth’s intentions, and this made him wary of trusting the man completely. Gareth had quite possibly saved Thranduil’s life in that skirmish, and that merited at least the benefit of the doubt, but the Elvenking had lived long enough to know that noble deeds were often carried out for far darker reasons.

 

“Shy, are you?” Gareth chuckled, and his tone was light for someone who’d just fought a battle. “Worry not, elf, we harbor no ill will towards your kind. Certainly not like those orcs.”

 

Thranduil was able to relax slightly upon hearing that, and he decided that Gareth’s words were genuine when he could find no trace of deception in his tone. That meant he could speak a bit more freely with this human. “While I am grateful for your help,” he began, cautious, “I must ask why. There are not many men who would come so near to a horde of orcs, let alone attack them merely to rescue one elven prisoner.”

 

Gareth was quiet for a moment, and Thranduil found it frustrating that he could no longer read the human’s body language without his sight. “To be truthful, we were just passing through,” he replied finally. “My people are fleeing these very same orcs.”

 

The last part made sense; the orcs of Dol Guldur had been terrorizing the villages of the Edain for months, so it was no surprise that the humans wanted to leave. But Thranduil knew there had to be more to the story. “So you decided to attack them?” he inquired, somewhat doubtful.

 

A pause. “They had abducted several of our women and children,” Gareth explained, his voice growing more somber now. “We sought to get them back, but… it seems we were too late.” The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

 

“I am sorry,” Thranduil said sincerely. Such a senseless loss of life was tragic, and he had known enough of it from the loss of his own people to last a hundred lifetimes. “May their souls be at peace.”

 

“That is all we can hope for them now,” Gareth said with a heavy sigh. “But I would leave no one to such a fate if I could help it. Whatever it is they wanted with you, they won’t have it now.” He paused for a moment. “What are you called, elf?”

 

Thranduil hesitated. Perhaps it would be for the best if he kept his true identity to himself for now. If word got out that the Elvenking was missing from Mirkwood, especially while Legolas was away as well, it could spell disaster. “My name is Malathion,” he said after only a heartbeat’s pause. It had been the name of the captain of Oropher’s guard, whom Thranduil had known when he was very young. Said elf had long since sailed west, but any man would not know the difference. “My patrol was attacked by orcs, and I was taken captive.” At least, it was partially true.

 

“I see.” Gareth seemed to accept this without further questioning, and judging from the sounds of many more voices up ahead, they were approaching the human encampment. “I have duties to attend to with the rest of my people, but I’ll leave you with Rhiannon and her daughters. They’ll look after you.”

 

The horse soon came to a halt, and Gareth dismounted to the left, waiting for Thranduil to do the same. Centuries of experience with such things allowed Thranduil to slide off the horse with relative confidence even without sight, though he hoped Gareth wouldn’t pick up on his slight hesitation.

 

However, Gareth must have noticed that something was off. “Well, I’ll confess to never having met an elf before, but I didn’t think I’d ever meet a blind one,” he remarked. “What they say about Mirkwood soldiers must be true: even a blind elf can shoot better than a man.”

 

Thranduil couldn’t help but be faintly amused by that. Was that what the humans thought of them? Well, it was partially true; any elf could shoot better than a man. He wasn’t entirely sure of his abilities with a bow in his current state, though. “You would be surprised by what our warriors are capable of,” he responded. He still had his kingdom’s reputation to uphold, of course.

 

Small, quick footsteps could be heard off to the side, and with a laugh a young girl leaped into Gareth’s arms. “Uncle Gareth’s back!” she exclaimed, clearly excited. “Ma, Ruatha, Uncle Gareth’s back!” She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old, still very young even by human standards.

 

Gareth laughed and held the girl close, nuzzling the top of her head with his nose. “Yes, Lyssa, I told you I’d be back, didn't I?” he said with a fond smile. “You kept your mother and your sister safe while I was away, I trust?”

 

Two other women emerged from the hastily erected tent nearby, and the older one spoke first. “Gareth,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.” Though her voice was warm, she sounded tired, a soul-deep kind of tired.

 

“You needn’t have worried, Rhiannon,” Gareth told her gently, setting down the younger girl, who immediately returned to clutch at her mother’s skirts. “We were careful.”

 

All of a sudden Thranduil felt several pairs of eyes on him, and he fought the urge to shift his weight uncomfortably. It was odd to sense their stares on him and not be able to stare back.

 

“Who’s that?” It was the girl’s voice, the young one, her tone innocent and curious, but the weight of her mother and sister’s gaze made the words heavy.

 

“This is Malathion,” Gareth said, placing a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “A wood elf. We rescued him from the orcs when we were looking for Myna and her daughters. I’ll tell you about it later, but for now I need you to look after him.”

 

Thranduil felt Rhiannon’s gaze rake him up and down, and he could sense tension from her. “Gareth, why did you bring him here?” There was a lingering accusation in her tone, and he wondered whether it was prejudice or worry for her family.

 

“Because I could not abandon him to the same fate as Myna and her daughters,” Gareth replied sharply, and there was a heavy, somber silence for a few moments as the implication settled over the group. It was known that orcs only took prisoners by orders or for sport, and those in the latter group never lasted long.

 

Thranduil had not been able to get a word in edgewise, but right now he thought it best that he should keep silent. This was clearly a matter that went beyond his mere presence in the camp, and it needed to be settled between them. As much as he wanted to make haste in getting back home, that was going to be a complicated endeavor, so for now he was simply along for the ride with these humans.

 

Finally, it was Gareth who broke the tense silence. “I will return soon, but I have duties I must attend to,” he sighed. “…Myna would have wanted us to save as many lives as we can.”

 

“I’ll take care of him, Ma,” came the older girl’s voice, softly. “You rest. Lyssa can help me with supper.”

 

Rhiannon let out a sigh that seemed to drain all the resistance from her. “Very well then.”

 

Thranduil inclined his head respectfully towards her. “I am in your debt, my lady.” He inwardly winced at how ragged his voice sounded, even to himself. And he was sure he must look a sight as well, bedraggled and dirty from his captivity with the orcs, so he understood why the woman would be reluctant to let some dirty vagabond into her house. Or tent, as it were.

 

“Well, at least he’s polite,” murmured Rhiannon to her daughter, who responded with something Thranduil couldn’t quite catch.

 

Thranduil suddenly felt chilled, like a cold breeze had just blown through, despite nothing of the sort happening. He was tired, so very tired… It was as if all the pain and exhaustion of the last few days had caught up with him all at once, and it hit him like a physical force. He felt dizzy of a sudden, and the disorientation of being unable to see wasn’t helping his balance. He heard concerned voices around him, but they seemed distant and muffled, almost like he was underwater. The last thing he remembered was the sensation of falling, collapsing in a boneless heap on the ground with only the faint sound of his own breathing in his ears.

 

~oOo~

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_Vaguely, Thranduil knew he was dreaming. But the thought seemed so insignificant, merely a passing wonder in the back of his mind, like the flurries of snow drifting through the air around him. It felt familiar here, he thought as he took a deep breath and exhaled, his breath billowing in front of his face in a silver cloud._

_This form was familiar. Four strong legs beneath him, supported by wide cloven hooves. A broad chest with deep lungs. A rack of proud, many pronged-antlers spread out from atop his head, reflected white like his fur in the ice under his hooves. He was an elk, tall and proud, and he felt a deep sense of being home under the snow-covered trees. It was winter, with much of the forest dusted in a covering of snow, and the usual sounds of birds and insects flitting about were absent._

_Even the spiders were sluggish in the cold, curled up in their webs high in the canopy, so it was quiet but for the rustling of snow-covered branches and the whistle of the wind. Thranduil’s hooves made muted clacking sounds against the ice of the frozen pond as he walked over it, following the scent of warm fur and musk. His hooves soon met fresh snow, silencing his steps as he wandered towards the edge of the trees. There were other elk around, does with wide black eyes and ears pricked, but they made no move toward him. They did not speak, only bowed their heads and went back to grazing at the snowy branches of a bush._

_The sound of a wolf’s howl pierced the quiet cold, and Thranduil stopped short. His ears lifted and faced forward, listening intently. The howl echoed off the mountains, a lonely, plaintive sound that did not inspire fear but sadness. Thranduil watched the group of does tense up, abandoning their grazing to trot in the other direction, deeper into the trees, but he was not afraid. Rather, he felt drawn to the sound, as if it were something familiar._

_He trotted out past the tree line, where a swath of snowy land lay between him and the craggy peaks of the Emyn Muil. Looking up at the peaks, they were silhouetted darkly against the gray sky, half-hidden behind heavy snow clouds and the gusting flurries. It felt important to see this, somehow._

_There was a break in the clouds which allowed Thranduil to see the lower peaks clearly, and there he saw the outline of a wolf standing on one of the lower cliffs, looking out across the expanse of snow._

_It was a white wolf, his fur just a shade darker than the snow that swirled in the air around them, and he stood very still upon the cliff, as if he was looking for something. Then the wolf tipped his head back and let out a low, mournful howl, a sound that sent chills up Thranduil’s spine._

_But he was not afraid. Instead, he felt a new sense of familiar urgency, and hearing the wolf’s howl was like being reminded of something he couldn’t quite grasp in his memory. Unsettled, he stamped his forehooves, snorting and shaking his head. There was something important here, he knew, something he couldn’t forget and yet still couldn’t remember._

_He stared up at the wolf, who was already turning away from the cliff face, feeling a pang of an emotion he couldn’t name in this instinctually-driven form. He couldn’t speak, but he felt as though he had to answer the wolf’s cry. He let out a long, low bellow that quickly rose to a whistling shriek, the unmistakable cry of a bull elk, the sound carried forth and lost in the cold wind._

_The wolf didn’t stop, his lithe body disappearing into the distant grey as he bounded away down the other side of the cliff. He was gone as quickly as he had come, like a wraith disappearing into the mist._

_Suddenly darkness enclosed Thranduil again, reaching around his consciousness with shadowy tendrils that seemed to drag him away from the wintry landscape. He slipped from the elk’s form, feeling overwhelmed by claustrophobia of a sudden, the vision of a snow-covered land bleeding away like spilled ink, only to give way to a canvas of murky reds and blacks, firelight flickering against damp black stone._

_Terror surged through Thranduil’s heart as he recognized the dark stone of Dol Guldur, and he tried frantically to banish the memory, but it wouldn’t leave. The nightmare seemed to feed off his fear, growing sharper, more real with every second. It had its claws sunk deep in him again, and the grip of the orcs’ hands felt painfully, terrifyingly real. The more he fought it, the more intense it became, but fear made him desperate, intensely vulnerable in ways he had not known in millennia._

_“Hold him still,” Dagok’s voice growled, his huge form silhouetted in the flickering orange light of a nearby torch, and the three orcs surrounding Thranduil pinned him tighter to the floor._

_He thrashed in their grip, his heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, but he was too weak from his earlier wounds to overpower them. He was trapped, and the gleam in Dagok’s beady black eyes was sadistically gleeful._

_“You will learn your place, elf,” the tall orc rumbled as he knelt next to Thranduil, holding a tiny phial of glistening black liquid, more viscous than water but too thin to be ink. The monstrous orc was grinning, his lips split entirely too wide as one of his massive hands gripped Thranduil’s hair to hold him still._

_“I will take from you everything you hold dear,” Dagok hissed, eyes gleaming. “This is only the beginning.”_

_The phial tilted in Dagok’s surprisingly nimble hands, spilling black poison into Thranduil’s eyes with deliberate cruelty. The pain was searing, even in the dream, and the last thing he remembered was hearing a scream he only dimly recognized as his own, his sight fading into choking darkness, a void where light could never touch._

 

 

 


	10. Foresight and Forebears

_~10~_

_Foresight and Forebears_

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Legolas was shocked into silence for a second or two, caught off-guard by the casual use of his name, as if this elf already knew him. He was sure, however, that he had never met Celebrynd before, for he was certain he would remember such a meeting. "You… you know…? He trailed off, unsure of even what questions to ask first.

Celebrynd only smiled cryptically, and the expression was unreadable on the elf's deceptively cherubic face. "I know you have many questions for me. Patience, young Prince. You will find what you seek in due time."

Legolas' brow knitted momentarily, but he forced himself to contain his impatience. It would not do to act like a tactless elfling here. "Then you know what it is I seek?" he began, curious. How could this elf know so much about him before they had even met?

"I know what it is you have done, and what it is you hope to do," Celebrynd replied, one hand gently stroking the elk's silky nose while his amber eyes wandered across the clearing, passing over Legolas and then Melwasúl, who remained impassive.

"My lord," the she-elf began with a respectful incline of her head. "I had intended to inform you of his presence, but it seems your gift of sight has bade you already know."

"Your efforts are appreciated, Melwasúl," Celebrynd replied without looking at her. He seemed to be gazing out into the forest, unfocused yet peaceful, though his tone suggested that he was perfectly alert. "You may leave us. The Prince and I have much to discuss."

Melwasúl gave a short bow and then turned to leave, heading back through the same forest path by which they had entered. Legolas watched her go, unsure of what to do with himself now that he was alone with the mysterious leader of the Avari. What questions should he ask first? How much did this elf already know? _How_ did he know?

"You seem uncertain," Celebrynd remarked, immediately picking up on Legolas' feelings. Amber eyes settled on the blond elf, who suddenly remembered his courtly manners and stood straight, though keeping his gaze respectfully lowered.

"My apologies if I seem so distracted, my lord. My journey has been… tumultuous," he admitted. In truth, his thoughts were beginning to race with all that still needed to be done, all that could be happening in Mirkwood whilst he was absent. Guilt gnawed at the back of Legolas' mind. Raenor had been right; it was foolish to go gallivanting off on his own at a time like this… What had he been thinking?

"You must calm yourself, Legolas," said Celebrynd's voice gently, suddenly much closer than he had been a few moments ago. He was standing a pace in front of Legolas now, and the Prince startled briefly. "Your guilt and your worry will do you no good now."

Legolas just blinked at the elf lord, able to do naught but stare for a few moments. It was as if he could read minds, and it was beginning to unsettle the Prince. "I… Forgive me, but how do you know that? My name, and what I am thinking. Am I so easily read?"

Celebrynd gave a brief, mysterious smile again. "Indeed you are perceptive," he remarked as he stroked the sable elk's fur, the beast's dark eyes watching Legolas. "I know much more than you might expect. My gift is one of foresight. I had foreseen that you would come to us."

"Foresight?" Legolas' eyes went wide, and he felt a glimmer of hope. "Like Lord Elrond?"

"Not quite," replied Celebrynd as the glass ornaments in the trees chimed musically in the breeze. "It is… incomplete. At times I see snippets of what was, what is, and what is yet to be."

"But you saw that I would come here," Legolas pressed, his urgency making him more forward than he would otherwise be. "…Can you see what has happened to my father? I was searching for him."

There was a flicker of emotion in Celebrynd's eyes, but it was gone so quickly that Legolas couldn't determine what it might have been. "I knew your father many, many centuries ago," he said finally, his tone more solemn than before. "Long has he been absent from my sight, but I have seen him just as I see you now."

"You knew him?" Legolas questioned, confused. His father had never spoken much of his past, but never had he once mentioned the Avari. If their two kingdoms had history, Legolas had not heard of it. "…I do not understand. I did not even know your people still resided here in our forest, and yet you know my father."

Celebrynd's expression was suddenly grave as he looked at Legolas, serious and perhaps vaguely sad. "There is much you do not yet understand," he said in a tone that was equal parts sympathetic and gently chiding. He fell silent after that, and the gentle chimes of the glass ornaments in the trees were the only sounds between them.

Legolas let out a deep exhale through his nose, closing his eyes briefly. There was no more time to waste on history, even if he still had many questions. "I do not do this lightly, but I must ask for your help," he said quietly, fixing Celebrynd with an imploring stare. "You say you once knew my father, so you must know that he is a good elf, and a good king. He has been taken prisoner by foul creatures, and I seek to rescue him."

Celebrynd's silence lasted so long that Legolas was starting to worry before he finally spoke again. "I know." He sighed, as if a great weight had settled over his shoulders. "… a terrible darkness rises again in these lands, Legolas. We cannot blind ourselves to it any longer." Amber eyes stared into blue. "I will provide you what aid I can. But first you must heal."

Legolas nodded, not trusting himself to speak as dizziness briefly settled over him, black spots flashing in front of his vision as his shoulder twinged with a painful ache he only now started to notice. Indeed, he started to realize the extent of his exhaustion, and he felt as though he had been walking for days without rest. The meeting had sapped more of his strength than expected, though Legolas stubbornly fought to remain still and upright. He shook his head briefly, trying to clear his vision. It would not do to faint in front of the Avari king.

"Rest now, Prince Legolas," said Celebrynd, who could seemingly see through any act Legolas put up. He was calm and seemingly unfocused once more, staring out at the forest. "Melwasúl will lead you back to your quarters."

And indeed the she-elf was suddenly there, appearing as if by magic to put a steadying arm around him. "Come," she told him gently but firmly. "You still need rest while your shoulder heals."

Legolas didn't have a mind to protest as she led him back through the meadow path, feeling dizzy and unsteady. The walk back to Melwasúl's tree dwelling was a blur, and when he lied down he felt sleep tugging at him insistently. But he didn't want to sleep yet; there were too many important things that needed to be done, though he knew that he was in no state to be doing any of them. Thoughts of home drifted through his mind, and he wondered what Lainathiel was doing back in Mirkwood. Hopefully she'd gotten his message… The message… Whatever it said.

His thoughts soon drifted to his father, and Legolas felt a vague twinge of worry once again. Valar only knew where Thranduil was after their ill-fated escape attempt… There was nothing to be done about that now, but the Prince could not help but feel guilty.

Melwasúl must have sensed Legolas' feelings, turning from where she was diligently fletching arrows to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You should sleep," she told him softly. "You need rest."

"I can't," he replied in almost a whisper, eyes closed. "There is… so much I do not know." Things out of his control seemed to taunt the Prince, and it stung like a splinter in his heart. He felt like he had failed. Failed to be responsible for his kingdom, failed to protect his father, failed to even protect himself. Everything was spiraling out of control, slipping through his fingers like sand in the riverbank. What was he going to do now?

"There are some things none of us know," said Melwasúl quietly. "And some things we are not meant to know. All things will come to pass, in time." She could sense the thoughts that weighed heavy on the Prince's shoulders, guilts that were not his to bear, and as much as she desired to offer comfort, there was little she could do.

As much as he wanted to resist it, Legolas soon drifted into sleep, his body urging him to finally rest. His conversation with Melwasúl lulled into silence, his breathing became slow and even, and he slept.

~oOo~

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_Legolas was a wolf again, standing on a craggy cliff amid a chilly wind that echoed through the mountain peaks. His white fur ruffled and whipped in the wind, but he felt no cold except for the mountain stone beneath the pads of his feet. He stared out at the plains beyond, sharp blue eyes searching the empty land._

_This time he wasn't running but searching, searching for something he couldn't name but inspired a rush of fierce protective aggression in his veins. Here his mind was thinking in instincts, in emotions and familial bonds he could feel in his heart of hearts. He lifted his muzzle to scent the wind, finding only the sharp smell of cold and stale traces of others like himself, but he knew the trail was not lost._

_It was not his nose that would lead him to what he sought, but his heart. He could feel it. Feeling a sudden, instinctive urge, Legolas tipped his head back and let out a long, low howl, the sound carried far and wide on the mountain air._

_After a moment of listening to the echo, another voice came back to him. It wasn't a wolf, but something else. There was no howl, but a low bellow that rose into a whistling shriek echoed on the wind, and it sounded far away, but at least there was someone out there who had heard Legolas' keening cries and spoken in response._

_He knew he couldn't stay, turned and took off in a run, long loping strides carrying him swiftly down the gently sloping side of the cliff. His jaws hanging open, he caught traces of a familiar scent on the wind, and he knew he was going the right way. It was a long way, but somehow he felt it was the right one._

~oOo~

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Legolas jolted awake with a gasp, unsure of where he was for a split second. But he quickly recognized the interior of the tree dwelling and sighed, placing a hand on his forehead. _What is happening to me?_ This was the second time he'd had such a vivid dream, and he couldn't remember such a thing happening since he was an elfling. He glanced to his right and found Melwasúl staring at him in the dark, her blue eye catching the low light of dusk.

"You must have many questions," she began. It was a flat statement, not a question. Somehow, she knew before Legolas himself did.

He decided not to worry about how she knew these things and take the opportunity to have some of his questions answered. "What was that?" Legolas asked immediately, looking into her eyes. "Was that… really a dream?" His heart was still beating fast, a phantom ache in his limbs from the cold and the running. He had hoped that the wolf dreams would simply go away on their own, that they didn't mean anything. But if they were not merely tricks of his mind…

"It was a dream, in a manner of speaking," she responded simply, shifting so that her legs were crossed in front of her, leaving her arrow fletching alone for the moment. "But it was also real."

Legolas could only stare at her. "Real? You mean to say that I was really… there?"

"For a short time," Melwasúl replied, deadly serious as she gazed into the Prince's blue eyes. It was clear that she did not jest. "All Avari have the ability, and each takes the form closest to one's heart when it first manifests."

That only served to confuse the Prince further. "But I am not of the Avari," he protested. "My father was prince of the Sindar, and my mother…" He trailed off, suddenly realizing that he did not know his mother's lineage. An inkling of realization suddenly trickled into his mind, and for a moment he was shocked into silence. _But… That can't be…_

Melwasúl closed her eyes briefly. "I did not mean for you to find out this way," she said, almost apologetically. "Celebrynd would have told you, in due time. But it felt not right to keep such things from you now."

"You mean my mother was Avari?" Legolas had to suppress his disbelief. Surely if such a thing were true, Thranduil would have told him! But… as he remembered it, Thranduil did not often speak of his late wife, even to Legolas, who had been so young at the time of her passing that he could only just remember what she looked like.

Melwasúl smiled. "We all know the tales of Lianna," she said, her voice quietly fond. "But you would have to ask my mother if you wish to know more. She was raised with Lianna as a sister."

"If she did know my mother," Legolas said after a moment's pause. "Then I would very much like to speak with her." Thranduil's reluctance to speak about such matters meant that Legolas knew very little of his mother except what was written in the palace records and what he could glean from passing mentions of her, so he couldn't pass up an opportunity like this.

Melwasúl nodded, already getting up and waiting near the door. "I thought you might. Perhaps she can answer some of your questions."

Legolas stood up slowly, mindful of his shoulder, and followed her, mind already buzzing with questions. "Perhaps."

The sun was sinking low behind the tree line when the two elves crossed the bridge of woven branches that led to another elegant tree dwelling, and Legolas glanced at Melwasúl, uncertain. "Will your mother not be bothered at having visitors so late?"

The elleth only smiled. "No. Quite the opposite, in fact." She led Legolas across another bridge to the dwelling perched higher in the tree than the last, inviting him to climb up first with a quick gesture upwards. "I think she'll be eager to meet you."

Despite his desire to know more about his mother, Legolas felt a flutter of nervousness in his belly. He wondered if the answers to his questions would be the ones he expected. What was she like, all those centuries ago? Did she look as he remembered her? How did she and his father meet? And… how did she die?

"Legolas," came Melwasúl's voice softly, along with a gentle touch on his arm, startling the Prince out of his reverie.

He stiffened in surprise, glancing at her and seeing the understanding expression on her face. He found he couldn't form words at the moment, so he only stared at her, conflicted feelings showing in his eyes.

"It will be alright," she told him softly, giving the Prince a gentle nudge up the ladder. It was as if she knew what he was thinking (though he was sure it was written all over his face at this point), but her reassurances were no less comforting.

Climbing up to the platform that extended from the dwelling, Legolas observed that the curtain draped over the doorway had been swept to the side, and the warm light of candles flickered within. He peered inside, watching as a shape moved from the shadows, candlelight reflecting off dark brown eyes that looked black in the dimness.

The elf woman stepped out of the doorway and into the dying light of dusk, and her gentle brown eyes went wide for a moment, as if she recognized him. Then she smiled. "You must be Legolas," she said, the cadence of her voice gentle and almost musical.

Legolas was again surprised, and for a moment his mind was blank. How did everyone here seem to know more than he did? It was getting a little strange. "Yes," he managed finally, unsure of what else to say.

The elleth's eyes glimmered with amusement. "You look just like your father," she remarked. "My name is Ithiriel. I know my daughter has brought you here for a reason."

"Yes, _naneth_." Melwasúl spoke up from behind Legolas, her smile almost mirroring her mother's. "I thought you might want to see him. And he would like to ask you a few things as well."

"Please, do come in," said Ithiriel, leading the two of them inside the cozy tree dwelling, where they sat on woven rugs on the floor around a cluster of candles. It was getting dark as the sun set behind the trees, but the candles staved off the darkness, soft orange light flickering across the faces of the three elves. "What you wish to speak of may take some time."

Legolas wasn't sure what she meant by that, his gaze uncertain as he glancing at Melwasúl next to him, crossing his legs to sit more comfortably. Why did everyone here seem to know something he didn't?

Ithiriel's long hair was a sheen of midnight black, soft curls framing her face like a hood of shadows in the candlelight. It would have been eerie if not for the gentleness of her eyes, which caught the light like amber. "What brings you to the home of the Avari, Legolas?"

Legolas hesitated briefly. "I was wounded on the return from an urgent mission," he explained, one hand reaching up to touch his bandaged shoulder. "It was more serious than I knew, and I might have died if your people had not found me. In truth, I did not know this place existed."

Ithiriel's dark eyes glimmered briefly with amusement. "There are few outsiders who do. Did your father never speak of his time with us to you?"

"No," Legolas admitted, his gaze fixated on the candles. He tried not to feel hurt by that. Why had Thranduil never told him of such things? Surely it would have come up at some time, especially if his mother had come from here! He looked up suddenly, meeting Ithiriel's gaze. "But that is what brings me here. My father has been captured by orcs, and he is in terrible danger. I sought to rescue him, but I did not succeed."

Ithiriel's eyes widened a fraction, and she sighed a moment later. "That is troubling news," she said after a moment's pause, meeting the Prince's gaze. "I knew your father and your mother both, but it seems it would be best if I started that story from the beginning."

Legolas stared intently at her, his attention rapt. Perhaps now he could gain a few more pieces to the puzzle of this story. "I will listen to all you have to say."

Ithiriel nodded, and she began the story, one that had its beginnings many thousands of years ago…

~oOo~

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_The decision to leave Amon Lanc had been a difficult one. It was with a heavy heart that King Oropher of the Greenwood announced to his people that they must forsake their roots, their homes, and all that was familiar to them in order to journey north. To ask such a thing of them was not something he did lightly, and neither did he wish to leave the place that had been their home for so long. But Amon Lanc was no longer safe, its walls tainted by a dark shadow that crept its way up from the south and the east, and his people could not remain._

_Beyond the fortress there was leagues upon leagues of forest, and there had to be a place for them somewhere within. It would be a long journey, and a difficult one, but they had no choice. The home they knew was gone._

_Oropher himself had no desire to pack up his people, his family, and their entire life for a treacherous journey through the forest, not with his wife and young son vulnerable to attack. But he had no choice, and as their King he was tasked with leading his people to safety, to a new home far beyond the reaches of the shadow._

_Six days after the decree was made, the elves of Amon Lanc had done everything they could to prepare for the journey ahead. Laden with supplies and the most treasured of their worldly possessions, the going would be slow, and they would have to march for days at a time. With a caravan of this size, they could not make camp each night and pack up again each day; to do so would waste precious time and supplies, and until the elves could find a new home, what they carried with them was all they had._

_The time to begin their journey was fast approaching, and the young Prince Thranduil could not help but look back on the place that used to be his home, the great fortress looking far emptier than he had ever seen it. "Nana," he said quietly. "Where are we going to go?" He was barely thirty, still a small child in elf terms, the equivalent of a human nine-year-old._

_The Queen gently squeezed her son's hand. "We do not know yet," she told him gently. She saw no point in telling half-truths to the boy; he was far more perceptive than his young age suggested, and he likely already knew the truth, or at least suspected. "But we will find a new home, my son."_

_Thranduil looked up at her with blue eyes dark with confusion and sadness. "But I like it here," he protested. "Why can't we stay?" Amon Lanc was the only home he had ever known, and to a child the world outside that home must have seemed a dark, strange place._

" _Because it is not safe here. We will find a new home, a better home than this one," said Nimriel softly, though her eyes were sad as she too gazed out upon Amon Lanc for what could be the last time. After a few moments she turned away from the sight, leading young Thranduil by the hand as they walked down the hill._

" _Come, my little running river," said the Queen. She could no longer bear to look upon the home that was no longer their home, and she was only grateful that her son would be too young to remember much of this place when he was older. "Your father will be waiting for us."_

_~oOo~_

_._

_._

_._

_The exodus of elves marched slowly, steadily north under the leadership of their King, whose guidance they trusted without question. Oropher had led them through strife and dark times before, and he would not fail them now. But the road was long and the forest dense, its narrow paths curved and winding through dense foliage and trees older than some of the elves passing beneath them. Warm golden light dappled the forest path during the day, and at night the silvery glow of the moon lit their way, the stars of Elbereth bright and twinkling like diamonds against a midnight canvas. There were mountains in the distance as well, and beyond them only leagues more forest._

_It was a place filled with life, at times both harsh and beautiful, but such was the way of life. The forest was a wild place, and that was not to be forgotten._

_The Sindarin elves were deep into the forests of the Greenwood, with less than half their stores of food and medicine remaining, when they encountered their first true obstacle._

_They had not made camp in three days, taking shifts riding on horses and mules and wagons to sleep whilst the march continued uninterrupted. It was imperative that they reached the north of the forest before their supplies ran out, else it could take months before all their people would be resettled together. They could survive off the land around them, but with so many mouths to feed it would be very lean. Oropher did not fancy the thought of watching his people starve without shelter or food, and this kept him from calling a halt sooner, even though such a pace took a heavy toll of fatigue on each and every one of them._

_This thought weighed heavy on Oropher's mind when the vanguard marched into a clearing and were suddenly met with the first sentient faces they had seen outside of their own people. The strangers were many, standing in endless rows like a living blockade with dark hair and darker eyes, holding bows with arrows at the ready._

_They were elves._

_Oropher stopped his horse at the entrance of the clearing, his eyes never leaving the rows of stoic elf warriors across the way, and gave the order to halt the procession. Slowly, the entire caravan rolled to a stop, sighs of relief and exhaustion coming from those further back, those who could not see what lay ahead._

_The King kept his expression impassive, unwilling to show either fear or gladness. He was not sure which would be appropriate just yet. "We mean you no harm," he called across the clearing, his voice carrying proud and strong despite the past three days of no rest. "We are Greenwood elves, like yourselves, and we are peaceful!"_

_At first there was no response from the ranks of warriors, but then the center rows parted to let through an elf with hair the color of the first rays of sunset. He was easy to pick out amongst the sea of dark-haired warriors, and his eyes were twilit amber. He was on foot, as were all the warriors, though he carried himself just as proudly as any, a long yew bow strapped to his back._

_His gaze was stoic as he stared into Oropher's eyes from across the distance. "You may go no further."_

_Surprise rippled through the elves of the vanguard, those close enough to hear the words, and Oropher's guards exchanged concerned glances between them. It was known that all elves were kin to a certain degree, and it was nigh unheard of for any serious altercation to take place between the Firstborn, except in the most dire of situations. To spill the blood of one's kin was unforgivable. Yet all the same these elves seemed very much prepared to fight if they had to._

" _We must negotiate," murmured Oropher to his captain of the guard, Malathion. "We cannot turn back."_

_Malathion's expression was grave as he looked to his King. "I only hope that we can come to peaceful terms," he said in a low voice._

_Oropher nodded, and with a silent agreement passed between them, he and Malathion dismounted their horses and began to approach the middle of the clearing with slow steps, keeping their hands away from their weapons._

_At first there was the ominous creak of tightening bowstrings, and a few tense moments passed before the golden-haired leader of the wild elves gave a silent command to disarm. There would be no bloodshed today, not if he could help it._

_The amber-eyed elf met Oropher and Malathion in the center of the clearing, only a few feet between them when they came to a stop. He wore breeches of deerskin but no shoes, like the rest of his warriors, and his tunic was open in the front, beaded necklaces hanging in front of his bare chest. He looked Oropher in the eyes without fear, with a calm fierceness that belied his true strength. "I am called Celebrynd," he said in softly accented Sindarin. "What is it you seek in our forest?"_

_Oropher inclined his head respectfully. "I am Oropher, King of the Elves of the Greenwood. We have come far, journeying from the south of the forest to seek a new home for our people." It was naught but the truth, and he hoped that it would be enough. Elves were creatures of reason, but these strange folk had a fierceness about them, a wildness in their eyes that he had never seen before._

_Something in Celebrynd's eyes flickered briefly, though it was gone before any could discern what it was. Amusement, perhaps? "King of the Elves of the Greenwood," Celebrynd repeated, as if testing the words. His eyes were unreadable as he glanced from his people to Malathion to Oropher. "Not all of them, it would seem."_

_Oropher kept his expression neutral, though he refused to back down from Celebrynd's stare. "We merely seek passage through the forest," he explained. "To the north. We mean no harm to your people or your lands."_

_Celebrynd's hard stare did not change. "Your plight is unfortunate," he said, and there was a measure of sympathy in his voice. "But all the same, we cannot allow you to go any further. These lands belong to the Avari, and none other."_

_Oropher masked his surprise well, though now it all made much more sense. So here was where those elves who would not sail had settled their roots. "I understand that you wish to be left to yourselves," he said sincerely. "But surely there are lands beyond yours that we could settle. My people have no home right now, and they have uprooted their entire lives on the promise of a better future, one untainted by shadow."_

_Celebrynd gave a thin smile. "If only the words of Melkor and F_ ë _anor had been so sincere," he said in a tone that was tinged with genuine sadness but too carried the barest hint of a mocking edge. "Forgive me, King Oropher, but I have lived much longer than you, and I have seen what comes of the presence of Noldor and Sindar both. We will have no more part in your wars, and I ask that you respect that wish."_

_Oropher's brows knitted, and he wanted to protest, but… he could find no fault with the elf's words. What Celebrynd claimed was legitimate, however unfortunate his reasoning was. But still the needs of his people were pressing. They could not afford to turn back now. There had to be a way. "We have no more wars," he said, quietly but imploringly. "There is peace now. All we wish is to continue that peace here in the forest. You have my word."_

" _I do not know you. Your word has no value to me," said Celebrynd, calm and blunt. "If you wish to gain my trust, you must provide me with something to prove your honesty."_

" _Then what would you have from me?"_

_Celebrynd's amber eyes drifted lower, to something behind Oropher, and the King glanced over his shoulder, realizing with a shock that Thranduil was right there, half hidden behind Malathion's leg._

_The Prince's blue eyes went wide at being spotted, but he did not move, holding steadfast the gaze of his father and then the Avari king. He had listened to their dealings, but he knew not what was to come._

_When Oropher returned his gaze to Celebrynd, he knew with awful certainty what the elf would say._

_His expression utterly impassive, Celebrynd calmly met Oropher's gaze. "Your son."_

_Caught off guard, Oropher felt his heart fill with dread. He heard the tiniest gasp come from Thranduil, and it broke his heart. For a moment he was speechless, not knowing what to say. He bowed his head. "…You ask the one thing I cannot give."_

" _I would make a deal with you, King of the Greenwood Elves," said Celebrynd, who seemed so utterly sure of himself that it was almost hard to believe. "You may go north and settle your people, but your son stays with us. When and if there is five hundred years of peace in these lands, he will be returned to you. That is my condition." He spoke of such things with such calm, such surety, it was like he already knew what Oropher would say._

_Oropher had to put aside his emotions, locking away the turmoil in his heart. Here he could not be a father. He had to be a king. He met Celebrynd's gaze, unflinching. "I must discuss this with my advisors," he said diplomatically. "Might we meet on the morrow? My people are tired, and they need rest."_

" _Very well. At this time on the morrow I expect your answer."_

_Both elves nodded in respect and turned away, returning to their peoples to wait for the next meeting. Oropher took Thranduil's hand and led him back to the vanguard, where his mother was anxiously awaiting. The King seemed distant, his gaze distracted as he sent Malathion to relay the order to camp here for the night._

_Thranduil looked petrified, staring up at his father with imploring blue eyes. "Ada?" he asked quietly. "Ada...?" He waited until Oropher would acknowledge him, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. "…you won't let them take me away, will you…?" The Prince's voice trembled at the end, and despite his best efforts there were tears in his eyes._

_Nimriel looked horrified for a moment, and she put a protective arm around Thranduil's shoulders. "Of course he won't," she said gently, holding her son tight. "I won't hear of anything of the sort."_

_Oropher's silence lasted for what seemed like a very long time. Without looking at her, all he said was, quietly, "Nimriel. I must speak with you, meleth nin."_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger, lol. I had to split this chapter into two because it would have been over 9k words all together, so the rest will be published next week! I didn't want to overwhelm anyone with an almost 10k word chapter. If you got this far, thanks for reading!**


	11. The Little Prince

_~11~_

_The Little Prince_

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_That night Thranduil could not sleep, no matter how hard he willed it to come. He was curled up under a blanket in his father's tent, listening to his parents arguing outside. They were speaking Quenya, and his proficiency with the ancient language was elementary at his age, so he couldn't understand what they were saying, but he knew his mother was very upset. He listened to her voice break and her breath hitch with tears when she talked, unfamiliar elegant and sad words flowing swiftly from her lips in a desperate plea. His father sounded agitated when he responded, and there was a pained edge to his voice that let Thranduil know he was just as torn up about whatever it is they were discussing._

_Despite his mother's earlier assurances, the young Prince was terrified. Dread clutched at his heart and would not let go, and he was kept awake by the dark thoughts despite how tired he was. Somehow, he had a feeling that his mother's words had been hollow, even if she had not known it._

_Soon the voices of the King and Queen softened and faded into silence outside the tent, and Thranduil listened to their footsteps as they came back inside. It was pitch black except for the dying light of a single candle within, shadows flickering against the walls of the tent while Thranduil tried to be still and slow his breathing, pretending to be asleep._

_Nimriel knelt next to her son and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, believing him to be asleep. Her breaths were quiet and irregular, the sounds of her soft crying painfully audible in the night. She placed a tender kiss on her son's brow and stood up a few moments later without a word, unable to find the words to express all the things she could say._

_The night seemed to last a fraction of an eternity before a gentle hand shook Thranduil's shoulder to wake him, dawn light creeping over the horizon. It seemed to pass in a blur, the cool morning did, and the Prince barely spoke at all. His father dressed him in a tunic of fine green silk, embroidered with patterns of leaves and hemmed in silver. His mother braided his hair, brushed it out, then braided it again, murmuring soothing things to him that didn't match the raw grief barely hidden in her eyes. She settled an elegant silver circlet upon his brow, so that he looked every bit the Prince he was, and gave a sad smile._

_Thranduil wanted to ask her what was going to happen, where he would go and why, but he kept silent, knowing his mother couldn't bear to answer. In his heart he already knew. So instead he simply looked at her, holding eye contact for only a moment before he wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight, for he did not know when he would be able to do so again._

_When the time came to meet with the Avari again, the sun had almost reached the treetops, and Oropher waited for his son with a heavy heart. What he was about to do felt like cutting off a limb. He knew his wife might never forgive him; and when he was old enough to understand, neither might his son. But such was the burden of being King, and the safety of his people had to come before his own personal desires. Even if he did not wish it, it had to be done._

_The Avari archers were again assembled into the same impenetrable wall, bows in hand and dark eyes impassive. Celebrynd stood at the forefront, tall and proud with his great bow strapped to his back. Oropher took Thranduil's hand, and together they walked to the center of the clearing, flanked by Malathion and another guard._

_There was a moment of silence, and Celebrynd made eye contact with Oropher. "I await your answer, King of the Greenwood." His tone was expectant but not impatient, and his eyes were gentle when he gazed upon young Thranduil._

" _And now you have it," said Oropher, his eyes never leaving Celebrynd's. He placed a gentle hand on Thranduil's back and nudged the elfling forth, and Thranduil took a few hesitant steps toward Celebrynd. He looked over his shoulder at his father, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but there was none. Oropher's expression was impassive, the face of a King, not a father._

_Celebrynd beckoned Thranduil closer, and the elfling came to stand by his side, facing Oropher. "I do not do this lightly," said the amber-eyed elf, his voice solemn. "And I know that neither do you. You may pass through our lands and go north. Settle there, and find a home among the trees as we have. Here your son will stay until there is five hundred years of peace in these lands. If your words are true, then it should be no trouble."_

" _Then it is agreed," Oropher said, only the barest hint of emotion in his voice, the look in his blue eyes chilly as an autumn morning. "In five hundred years I will return for him."_

" _He will be safe with us," replied Celebrynd, perhaps a bit more gently, for Thranduil's sake, though he was not at all fazed by the woodland King's icy stare. "Go now, King Oropher, and we shall do the same."_

_Thranduil watched his father turn and walk away with his guards, and his heart ached with urge to run after him. But he had to be strong, strong like his father was. He was Prince of the Greenwood, and he had to act like it. Keep your head up, Oropher had told him, and never show them weakness. Show them only strength._

_The Avari archers were already fading into the trees, and Celebrynd gestured for Thranduil to follow him. The Prince walked alongside the mysterious amber-eyed elf and forced himself not to look back, struggling to keep his expression stoic._

_He felt a gentle pat on his head, and Thranduil looked up at Celebrynd. "Come with me, young one," said the Avari king, his amber eyes gentle and mysterious. "Our people shall teach you the ways of the forest."_

~oOo~

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After Ithiriel finished the story, for a few moments Legolas had no words. He was still in disbelief at some parts of the story, and further shocked that he had never before heard this tale told by anyone. He looked from Melwasúl to Ithiriel, eyes wide. "So Oropher gave his only son to Celebrynd in order to pass through the forest…?" He could hardly imagine such a thing. He thought it a terrible cruel price to ask, a decision with no right choice.

"Yes," said Ithiriel solemnly, though there was nothing apologetic about her tone. "Celebrynd did only what he had to do. He did not do it out of malice, nor out of disdain for King Oropher. He wanted to keep his people safe."

"So he asked for the King's child as collateral for a bargain, did he?" Legolas retorted, a bit more sharply than he intended.

"He knew that Oropher would keep his word if it was for his son," replied Ithiriel, her dark eyes cool and solemn. "Can you fault him for being cautious? This was the first contact the Avari had seen with other elves since the terrible wars of the First Age. What he did, he did for all of our protection."

Despite his initial thoughts about such a bargain, Legolas was forced to admit after a bit of thought that it made sense from the Avari's perspective. A foreign people marching into your lands, after having experienced centuries of tragedy because of their wars? It wasn't any wonder they wanted to be cautious. "…I cannot fault your king for striking such a deal," he conceded. "But… was there five hundred years of peace?" He still could not understand why Thranduil had never spoken of such a thing. He was not one to talk overmuch about the past, but Legolas would have expected _something_ in the last thousand years or so, especially if it concerned his mother's homeland.

"There was," Ithiriel affirmed. "But Thranduil and Lianna and I were only elflings when those five hundred years began, and you must know how time seems to stretch eternal for a child."

Legolas nodded slowly, still deep in thought. "So he met my mother here?"

"Indeed. She was my sister in all but blood," Ithiriel said with a note of wistfulness in her voice, "so we three shared in many an adventure in those five centuries. We reached our majority together, and took part in the same coming-of-age ritual."

"What was she like?" Legolas asked, blue eyes glimmering with curiosity. "She died when I was very young, so I never got to know her except through a few early memories."

"She was fierce, strong, and beautiful." Ithiriel's gaze was distant as she remembered, her countenance gentle and wistful. "Lianna was everything I aspired to be. Even as elflings we were always going off into the forest following her lead, climbing all the way to the canopy to see the mountains and chasing foxes through the brush."

Legolas smiled. "So my parents knew each other when they were young?"

"Oh, yes," Ithiriel chuckled. "Though they got along like a house on fire, sometimes they couldn't stand each other. He thought she was a know-it-all, and she thought he was insufferable. But we were young then, and you know how elflings can be."

"Mother, tell him the story of why you three cut your hair," Melwasúl added in, amusement glimmering in her eyes.

"Cut your hair?" Legolas repeated, surprised. It was very rare, nigh unheard of, for an elf to cut their hair except to maintain the ends, and he couldn't remember ever seeing an elf with short hair. Well, except for Celebrynd, but that was another mystery he hadn't yet solved.

Ithiriel chuckled at the memory. "I remember that one very well," she remarked. "I shall tell you the abridged version; the longer one would keep us sitting here all night."

She shifted her position to get more comfortable, the fondness of the memory clear in her eyes. "It was midsummer when the three of us were sent to take the livestock to the pasture near the base of the mountains. We were maybe a century old at most; still quite young, really. We were on horseback and herding the goats through a particularly dense bit of the forest when Lianna took a fall, and Thranduil and I were rather concerned when we heard her screaming like a fell beast."

"Screaming?" Legolas repeated, concerned. "Was she hurt?"

"Only her pride," chuckled Ithiriel. "But when she got out of that tangle of brambles, her hair was so full of burrs that it would have taken a week to get them all out. She was absolutely horrified when we got back and had to cut her hair. She didn't want anyone to look at her for days; her hair was short enough that it didn't even touch her shoulders."

Briefly Legolas tried to imagine the image he had of his mother but with short hair, and found he couldn't do it. It was simply too strange to picture, and his memory of Lianna was already hazy. "So what happened then?"

"Your father had the idea first," the elleth recounted with a fond smile. "He followed Lianna into the forest one day when she was gathering herbs and told her she needn't be ashamed of how she looked. He took his hunting knife and hacked off most of that golden hair of his, till it was short enough to barely touch his shoulders. They matched that way, he said."

Legolas could not help but chuckle at that. He couldn't imagine either of his parents with such short hair, but he was sure it had been a sight to see.

"So naturally I had to follow in their footsteps," Ithiriel continued, smiling as she played with a lock of her midnight-black hair. "Lianna was my sister, and I wasn't going to let our merry little band of fellows be mismatched. So the next day I cut my hair as well, and Lianna stopped hiding out in the forest after that."

Legolas smiled. "Thank you for telling me this," he said sincerely. "It is good to hear tales told of my mother. I did not hear them growing up, and long has it been since I heard her voice." It made him feel closer to Lianna, somehow, hearing about such adventures. His memories of her were sparse, and it was nice to know more about her. Much of her life was a mystery to Legolas, who knew her only as the mysterious smiling elf he sometimes saw in dreams and memories.

That was all she was to him, really. A dream, a faded memory. But perhaps with the help of the Avari, with all the wisdom they seemed to have, he could make that memory clearer, more than a phantom in his dreams.

"It is good to remember her like this," Ithiriel said softly, her dark eyes knowing as she looked at Legolas. Then she glanced outside at the dark sky, hearing the crickets singing in the night. "It is late now. You both should get some rest."

"She's right," Melwasúl said gently, touching Legolas' arm. "Let's go."

Legolas nodded after a moment and stood up to leave, casting a last glance at Ithiriel as he did so. There was so much more he wanted to ask, but now was not the time. The knowing look in the elleth's eyes told him she understood.

The Prince followed Melwasúl out of the dwelling and into the cool night air, the platforms illuminated only by the light of the moon and the soft green flash of fireflies. She led him back across the bridge, her bare footsteps all but soundless, and he had to keep his focus on her outline in the darkness so that he did not lose her.

"I am restless," he confessed to her when they returned to her dwelling, stopping outside the curtain that hung across the doorway.

She turned to look at him, her mismatched eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "I know," she said softly.

"I can sleep no more this night," Legolas told her quietly, gazing up at the moon. "My thoughts will not quiet themselves." He could not stop thinking of what Ithiriel had told him, and the thought of sleep was no more welcoming than it had been earlier. He was disturbed by the wolf dreams, if they really were dreams, and what they might mean.

Melwasúl gave a short nod after a moment, coming to stand on the edge of the platform next to him. The air was cool and quiet, typical of autumn, the crickets singing their lullabies from the tall grass below. "Shall we go for a walk?"

Legolas gave a small smile. "I would like that."

Her eyes gleamed again in the moonlight, a glimmer of something wild. "Then let us go." She swept over the edge of the platform and slid down the more slender limbs of the tree, slowing her fall until she dropped gracefully to the ground in a crouch.

Legolas did the same, relishing the thrill of adrenaline that surged in his veins as the wind whipped past his face, sliding through branches just as Melwasúl had, until he reached the ground. It felt good to practice his agility again, though he was careful of straining his shoulder. The night air was cool against his skin without his tunic on, but it was a pleasant sensation, and he looked to Melwasúl for direction.

"Follow me," she said in a whisper that matched the sigh of the wind, her grin briefly visible in the night, and darted off into the dense forest, hardly waiting for Legolas to catch up.

Legolas didn't hesitate as he ran after her, following her graceful movements into the trees, high into the canopy as she leapt from branch to branch, dark hair rippling behind her. She moved like the wind, gentle and graceful yet fierce, and Legolas had to work to keep up with her. Even though he had been climbing trees since he could walk, there was something in the elleth's graceful stride that bespoke of a deeper understanding, a connection to the forest that even the Silvan elves did not have, or if they did it was rare.

Finally Melwasúl stopped, leaping down from the last tree and into a glade filled with tall grass and fireflies. Legolas followed the sound of rustling grass and the smell of the open air, coming down from the tree only a minute or so behind her. He looked around at the waving grasses and leafy plants of the glade, at the center of which was a great oak tree, more massive than any he had ever seen before. Its branches were broad enough for three to walk abreast, its leaves able to shade the entirety of the meadow and then some.

Legolas' blue eyes were wide as he looked up at the great oak, in awe of its mighty presence. "Is this what you were looking for?" he breathed. Its gnarled roots were as broad as an elf's shoulders in some places, its trunk wide enough for fifty elves to join hands around it.

"It is the oldest tree in this forest," Melwasúl said quietly, standing shoulder to shoulder with Legolas as she gazed up at it. "Can you feel it?"

"I feel… something," Legolas said after a moment, trying to focus on the tingling presence he could feel somewhere in his heart of hearts. It was ancient, wise, _alive_ , and he felt very small standing before it.

"It is the heart of the forest," Melwasúl said in almost a whisper in Legolas' ear. "Can you hear it breathe? Can you sense its life pulsing in all things?"

Legolas took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting his elven senses reach out around him, searching in his soul's eye for the heartbeat that Melwasúl spoke of. It ran deep in the roots of this tree, of all the trees in the forest, and all the things that lived within it. The whispers of all the trees were audible here if he listened, speaking to each other in ancient tongues long forgotten by all but the forest, speaking of old names and old places, ones that were ancient even to the elves.

"I feel it," Legolas whispered, nearly euphoric with the sensation of being connected to all the tendrils of life that spread outward from the great tree. "I feel the whole forest…"

"Now come back," Melwasúl told him gently, squeezing his hand to ground him in the physical realm. "Don't let your mind wander too far. You might get lost."

The Prince opened his eyes again and the whispers were gone- there was only the soft sighing of the wind and the yellow-green glow of fireflies in the dark. He could still sense a presence in the back of his mind, but it was only a curious background sensation now, not the deep connection he had felt before, drawn in by its ancient power.

Melwasúl smiled. "You are indeed your mother's son," she remarked. "I knew you had the ability, if only you would open your eyes to it."

"I did not know such a gift existed," Legolas admitted, still trying to organize his thoughts after the experience. "The voices of the trees are… powerful here."

"Indeed they are," the elleth agreed as she led Legolas to sit down on a nearby protruding root, wide enough for the both of them. "That is why I brought you here. So you could experience it for yourself."

Legolas blinked, slowly pulling his mind back into focus. It felt oddly like the aftermath of the wolf dreams, when he woke up with a jolt, feeling like his mind was still in two places at once. "So you say that all Avari have this ability? Like my dreams?"

"Like your dreams," Melwasúl affirmed with a nod. "Dreams which, I think, still disturb you."

"It disturbs me that I do not know what they mean," Legolas said quietly, sending a meaningful glance in her direction. "I dream of being a wolf, and I am in the mountains, looking for something I can never find. I don't understand… How can it be real like you say?"

"Their meaning is not hidden," Melwasúl replied, gazing at him seriously. "What you see and feel in those dreams is as real as what you are seeing and feeling now. You're a skinchanger, Legolas."

Legolas stared at her. "But I thought…"

"Yes, I know what you thought," Melwasúl cut him off, shaking her head. "But not all skinchangers are of the same breed. The Avari mastered this ability long before the skinchangers of the mountains in the north, but our ability is different from theirs. We do not shift our forms as they do. The bond we have with this land runs deep, and when we wish to, we can slip into the skins of other creatures who inhabit it. It is easiest to do when one is sleeping, when the mind is clear and the soul calm enough to slip from one body to another, but some can do it at will even when they are awake, though their bodies are just as vulnerable without the presence of the soul."

Legolas had to pause a moment to take it all in, both shocked and awed by such an ability. "What form do you take?"

"Those who have mastered the ability can take any form they wish. But many prefer to take the form closest to their spirit," she replied. "For you, it seems to be a wolf. For me, it is a hawk."

"Can you teach me how to control it?" Legolas looked at her with eyes that were almost pleading. "There is something important I search for in these dreams. I think it is important here as well."

Melwasúl nodded gravely. "Perhaps it is," she said, meeting his gaze with unreadable eyes. "I will teach you the ways. But do not fret, Legolas. We are elves. We have all the time in the world."


	12. With Eyes Wide Shut

_~12~_

_With Eyes Wide Shut_

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For nearly two full days Thranduil did nothing but sleep, his body taking the opportunity to finally rest and try to heal. He drifted in and out of consciousness, but those memories were hazy and dreamlike, and all he could remember from them were soft voices and drinking something with a honey-sweet taste that made his head feel fuzzy but soothed the pain of his wounds. This allowed him to rest uninterrupted, something that had been sorely needed after suffering through both Dagok's torture and the journey from Dol Guldur.

When he woke for the final time, the first thing Thranduil became conscious of was that his eyes were closed. That was strange; elves did not usually sleep with their eyes closed. When he opened them he saw nothing but darkness, and the memories flashed through his mind once again like a lightning strike in the night sky, sending a shiver of phantom pain up his spine. He took a deep breath, feeling like he'd been asleep for a hundred years.

He shifted a bit to regain feeling in his body and found that he was lying on his belly, his head pillowed on his arms while a thin blanket covered him up to the shoulders. The shackles had been removed from his wrists, and he was conscious of bandages around his forearms and torso. All in all he was surprisingly comfortable, or perhaps it was just the fact that not being cold and in pain was a pleasant change of pace. Thranduil was briefly tempted to go back to sleep, reluctant to move from the warmth of the blanket and the pleasant, sleepy heaviness of his body, but something nagging at the back of his mind told him he should get up.

As he attempted to sit up, Thranduil heard the telltale rustling of another presence in the tent, and he stilled, cautiously listening.

"Oh, you're awake," said a female voice, tinged with surprise but sounding warm. "I'll fill you in on what you missed in a moment, but first drink this." She pressed a cup of water into Thranduil's hand, and the sound of the liquid suddenly made the elf realize how dry his throat was.

He drank eagerly, the cool water soothing his parched throat, then handed the cup back to the girl. "Thank you," he said finally, finding his voice now that his thirst was quenched and he was more aware. At least he sounded less like a frog. "Would you mind telling me where I am?" First things first. He felt like he had been asleep for a good while, and it was disorienting.

"Well, first and foremost, in a tent," replied the girl, who was folding linens and packing them up, by the sound of it. "But we're somewhere south of the forest, I think, near the bend of the Anduin."

The bend of the Anduin? That was definitely not where they had been before. Had he really slept through two whole days of travel? And just where were they going, anyway? Thranduil reached up to run a hand through his hair and push it out of his face, and he found it had been combed and neatly detangled while he slept.

"Are you usually this quiet, or just confused?" the girl's voice asked, and there was a hint of playful teasing in her tone. "Don't worry, Gareth told me you'd have questions when you woke up. I'm Ruatha, by the way. Gareth's my uncle."

The girl seemed friendly enough, and there was no hint of the prickling disdain that her mother seemed to radiate. "Well, I've had a bit of a long week," Thranduil replied with a wry smile. It was the understatement of the century, but it got the point across. "Bad luck and other such things. Is there any way I might speak to Gareth?"

"He should be coming by soon," said Ruatha as she was cramming folded linens into a creaking wicker basket. "He wanted to know as soon as you were awake, so Ma's probably gone and told him."

Suddenly the tent flap was pulled open, and footsteps stopped just outside. "Ruatha, I need you and your sister to go and fetch water," came Rhiannon's voice, her tone brooking no argument. "Leave the elf be. Gareth is here for him."

"Yes, Ma," Ruatha said dutifully, setting aside her basket and getting up to leave. She cast a last glance at Thranduil before disappearing outside, her mother's stern gaze following her. Another set of footsteps entered the tent, familiar ones this time, and Thranduil recognized Gareth by his heavy gait.

"It is good to see you've rejoined the land of the living," said the Man, who sat cross-legged across from Thranduil. "How are you feeling?"

Thranduil made himself sit a bit straighter despite the dull ache in his ribs, tossing his unbraided hair behind his shoulders and hoping he looked at least presentable. It never hurt to make a good impression, though he couldn't help but be slightly self-conscious as he remembered he was nude from the waist up; his tunic must have been removed at some point to bandage his back. "Much better than I was," he answered truthfully. "Thank you for letting me rest here."

"It is not our way to abandon those in need," Gareth said. "We would be happy for you to travel with us. It seems to me that we are fleeing the same enemy."

"Of sorts," Thranduil said after a pause. It was somewhat true, but there were more pressing matters to discuss. "But why have you come south? You cannot hope to take shelter anywhere but in the forest."

There was a soft sigh, and Gareth's voice was grim when he responded. "There is nothing left for us there. The orcs and the spiders both have made sure of that. Certainly you know the sickness that has descended upon those woods."

"My people are familiar with it," Thranduil admitted. However, he was rather in the dark about any problems the woodmen might have been having. He stayed busy enough trying to manage the safety of his own kingdom, let alone the scattered human settlements that dotted the western edge of the forest.

"Then you know that orcs are pouring out of that dark fortress like maggots from a corpse," Gareth continued grimly, and Thranduil could imagine the dark look in his eyes. "They have burned our homes and destroyed whatever livelihood we had in our village. We can take no more."

The Elvenking could feel Gareth's eyes on him, and he kept his expression a mask of calm. "Where will you go?" That was the question. While he didn't particularly care for the company of Men, he had little choice right now. Where they were going was of importance, so he could know how long it would take to return to Mirkwood.

"South," was Gareth's simple reply. "To Rohan, or to Gondor. Anywhere we will be safe. As far as Harad if need be."

Thranduil's brows knitted in a frown. "Why south? If it is orcs you fear, then south will take you only closer to Mordor. Head west to the Misty Mountains, and on the other side you will find no safer refuge than Imladris." It would be mutually beneficial if they were to do so; as much as he was loath to ask the Noldor for help, perhaps Elrond could help him with this problem of his sight.

"Rivendell? We would not make it that far," Gareth countered, shaking his head. "Not with autumn already upon us. I would not risk crossing the mountains in winter, not with three hundred men, women, and children in my charge."

"So you place your hopes with Gondor?" Thranduil inquired, somewhat skeptical. It seemed a far cry from a solid plan.

Gareth fixed the elf with a hard stare. "We have no armies to defend ourselves, and no fortress to barricade ourselves within," he said pointedly. "We are not like the wood elves. We have not the luxury of a choice."

He had a point there, Thranduil was forced to admit. "Your plight is grim," he conceded. "I only wish I could offer help. But I must return to Mirkwood. I have urgent news to deliver."

"If you must go, then do so," Gareth said simply, and Thranduil was caught off guard by how easily the Man acquiesced. "I cannot stop you. I would advise that you wait until your wounds are healed, but we cannot tarry here longer than we must. We move south when the camp is packed. It is your choice whether you stay or go."

It took Thranduil only a few seconds to realize he had another problem, even if he was allowed to leave as he wished. He could not admit it to Gareth, but… without his sight he had little hope of finding his way through Mirkwood on his own. He would be hopelessly lost without being able to see where he was going, not to mention that he would be easy prey for spiders, which often struck from above with no warning. The thought made his chest tighten with dread, and the Elvenking was beginning to realize there were far more obstacles in his path than anticipated… Orcs were the least of his worries now.

"Is something wrong?" Gareth pressed, and Thranduil snapped out of his spiral of worried thoughts at once, returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"No," replied the elf a bit too quickly. "I… was merely thinking."

Gareth was silent for a few moments, glancing left and right, then shifted a bit closer to the elf. "Now that I have answered your questions," he said in a low voice, "I hope you will not mind answering a few of mine."

Centuries of diplomatic experience ensured that Thranduil's expression gave nothing away. "And what questions might those be?"

"Like what those orcs wanted with you," Gareth said without missing a beat. "We both know that orcs do not take prisoners without exceptional reason. I saw the wounds on your back. They did not want you dead."

"Their leader is no ordinary orc," Thranduil said, his sightless gaze focused in Gareth's general direction. Despite being blind, he retained his sharp elven senses, including the uncannily precise ability to sense the position of people or things around him. "He is bloodthirsty and vicious, yes, but he is intelligent. He knows that some enemies are more valuable alive than dead."

"You have something they want." It was not a question, but the inquiry behind it was implicit.

"Or they thought I did," Thranduil replied coolly. He had been playing this game of words for centuries. He would not reveal more than he needed to. "He wanted information, you see, and I could not give it to him." Diplomatic half-truths were a talent of the Elvenking's.

Gareth was silent for a long moment, as if judging the veracity of the explanation. "Alright. I believe you," he said finally. "We have a common enemy in the orcs, though far be it from me to pry into the affairs of elves. I am concerned only with my people's safety."

"As I am with mine," Thranduil responded, wishing he could see Gareth's face to determine the man's motivations. It was a bit ironic that he only realized how much he relied on his sight now that he no longer had it. "Which is why I must return to my people as soon as I can."

Gareth was on his way out, called away by someone else needing his aid, but he paused in the entranceway. "I do not mean to delay your mission, whatever it may be, but I would advise you to remain here for the time being," he said, not unkindly. "You would be traveling alone, injured, and on foot. Those woods are dangerous, and not just because of the orcs."

It was as if he'd read aloud the thoughts that were on Thranduil's mind just minutes ago. He nodded in acknowledgement. "Your concern is appreciated, but I have lived in these forests for my entire life."

"And how old are you, if I may ask?" inquired Gareth, curious.

Thranduil gave a mysterious smile. "Older than you can imagine."

Gareth chuckled at that. "Fair enough," he said. "You're free to do as you wish, just don't cause any trouble."

"You have my word," Thranduil replied, inclining his head respectfully. He was a bit surprised at how casually the man reacted to meeting an elf for the first time, but he supposed that Gareth had more important things on his mind. It was fortunate, at least, that Gareth didn't think he was a demon or other such human nonsense.

Gareth's attention was distracted by someone else coming to the door, and the man stepped outside to speak to the newcomer in a low voice, though Thranduil's sharp elven hearing could pick out every word.

"We have five men dead now," said the newcomer gravely. "And two more struck with the same fever."

"There is nothing you can do for them?" Gareth asked, consternated.

"No medicine will bring down the fever," replied the other man, who sounded grimly resigned. "We lost Horst last night, and he had only a scratch from an orc blade."

Gareth sighed, and there was a heavy silence. "There is nothing more we can do for them," he said finally, a grim pronouncement. "Leave the bodies. We haven't the time to bury them."

"Leave them?" the other man repeated in shock. "Gareth, they _died_ for us. For _your_ convoluted rescue attempt. They deserve at least a proper burial!"

"And more will die if we stay to bury them!" Gareth returned sharply. "Is that what Horst and the others would want?"

There was silence from the other man, saying more than he could with mere words.

"We must focus our efforts on the living, Wulfric," Gareth said, more softly. "The dead will forgive us."

"I hope they will," muttered Wulfric, and the footsteps of the two men quickly faded into the noise of the camp.

Thranduil let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as soon as the men were gone, attempting to orient his thoughts. It was a pity that some of the men had died, but that wasn't his concern at the moment. He couldn't stay here any longer than absolutely necessary, blind or not. His wounds were painful, but not unbearably so, and he had suffered through worse. Aside from the little problem of his blindness, he seemed to be alright, relatively speaking. Well enough to walk all the way back to northern Mirkwood, though? It was doubtful, he thought with a grimace. _I need a better plan than just wandering north until I get home_ , he thought wryly. How would he tell which way was north? What would he do if he ran into a pack of spiders, or worse?

Thranduil put his head in his hands, sighing. This situation was growing more complicated by the minute. And the prospects of his returning home within a reasonable time frame were grim if Gareth and his entire village were traveling south. It left him stuck between two dismal options, neither of which seemed like a right choice at this point.

He only hoped that Legolas had made it back to the palace by now. If his son was safe, then that was all that mattered. So long as Dagok and his hordes of hell didn't get their hands on the Prince, then Mirkwood was safe. Part of him could not help but worry for Legolas, who had never before been asked to shoulder the burden of leading an entire kingdom on his own, and especially not so suddenly. But the other part had absolute faith in his son's abilities both as a leader and as a warrior, and there was nothing else Thranduil could do but trust that Legolas would rise to the occasion.

Thranduil closed his eyes briefly and tried to shut out the constant chatter of several hundred humans milling about the campsite. Men seemed to be loud in everything they did— their voices were forceful, their footsteps heavy, and the perpetual clattering of metal things: swords, pots, pans, horseshoes, or whatever else, was almost as bad as a pack of orcs. It was no wonder they were poor hunters, really. It made Thranduil wish he possessed the ability to shut his ears.

The Elvenking heaved a tired sigh, rubbing his temples as he felt a headache forming behind his eyes. Perhaps it was time to do a little exploring. It was terribly dull just sitting in the tent, listening to the humans milling about outside. A little information gathering never hurt, either. Thranduil stood up and felt his way to the tent's exit, his fingertips skimming the walls to orient himself. The air from outside was cool, a gentle breeze blowing in from the north.

The camp was busy, filled with men and women and children all going about their business in a scramble to pack and shore up what they had with them. Fires were doused, tents packed, and bleating goats and sheep and chickens rounded up from all corners of the makeshift village. The ground was soft and muddy from the recent rains, a misfortune that was grumbled about by every other person passing by, though they seemed to look right past the milky-eyed elf wandering about their camp. A few of them stared for a moment or two, but they merely shook their heads and went back to their work, unbothered.

Following the sound of the rushing Anduin nearby, Thranduil was able to slip through the crowd with relative ease, using the sounds of voices and the brush of sleeves to avoid colliding with anyone or anything. Soon the crowd thinned, and Thranduil knew he had passed the edge of the camp, which led out into a stretch of grass that bordered the riverbank.

It was all but empty- and much quieter, too. The background noise of the rushing river felt like a breath of fresh air after the clamor of the human encampment, and Thranduil felt a tension he hadn't been aware of ease from his shoulders. He sighed in relief, glad to be able to hear himself think again. The Anduin was a familiar landmark, one that stretched north all the way until it met the Forest River, which flowed into Mirkwood itself.

Thranduil suddenly had an idea. _Of course! If I can just follow the river, it will lead me straight back to Mirkwood_ , he thought, feeling hope flutter its wings in his chest like a trapped bird. It wasn't perfect, but it was a plan, and the details could be worked out along the way. He was so deep in thought at this point that he was hardly aware of his surroundings anymore, and given the Elvenking's tendency to wander in circles when he was thinking, he was bound to run into something.

Thranduil didn't expect that something, however, to be another person. He didn't notice Ruatha's presence until they walked right into each other, bumping chest to chest in an impact which sent them both crashing to the ground.

" _Oof!_ " Ruatha hit the ground with a noise of surprise, water spilling all over the ground next to her as she dropped her bucket. "Hey, watch where you're going!" she began angrily, and a second later noticed who it was she was berating. "Oh. Sorry about that."

"Well, you are correct that I was not watching where I was going," Thranduil admitted as he sat up and dusted off his trousers, a bit embarrassed to have not sensed her until he literally walked into her. "My apologies. I was not paying attention."

A high-pitched giggle from nearby attracted their attention, and Ruatha rolled her eyes as she watched her sister nearly fall over from laughing so hard. "Yes, yes, I'm sure that was very funny to watch," she said flatly.

"You weren't even listening to me when I told you to watch out," Lyssa snickered. "I told you that you should listen to me more often!"

"You've made your point, you little goblin," Ruatha said with crossed arms, though a goodnatured smile was already spreading across her lips. "Now go back and tell Ma I'll be a bit late with the water. I don't want her to worry."

"See you later, Ruatha," Lyssa giggled and ran off, her footsteps fading as she headed back towards the camp.

"Well, _that_ was embarrassing," Ruatha sighed, though her tone was light as she stood up, dusting off her dress and grasping Thranduil's hand to help him up. "She'll never let me live that one down. What are you doing all the way out here?"

"Just taking a walk," Thranduil replied, his sightless gaze still turned in the direction of the river. He was still thinking of his plan to return to Mirkwood, his mind distracted with figuring out the details.

Ruatha could tell he wasn't really paying attention to her, and she crossed her arms, looking at him with furrowed brows. She had never seen an elf before, but she was sure there was something… different about him. Aside from being blind, that was. "You haven't always been blind, have you?"

Those words got Thranduil's attention. His posture stiffened a bit, involuntarily, and turned his gaze in the direction of her voice. Such an astute observation had not been anticipated, at least not from a human. "…what makes you think such a thing?"

"Trust me. I just know," she replied, and there was a pause. Then, softly, "…I used to be the same way. Uncertain, tripping over things, wondering what I could do now."

Thranduil had hoped it would not be so obvious. He felt strangely vulnerable before her, knowing what she knew, like a mouse in front of a hawk. It was an uncomfortable, tight feeling, and all he could do was lower his head in a silent concession.

"I know how it feels," Ruatha said quietly after a moment, and her voice betrayed that she was just as uncomfortable. "I was… Well, let me just say that I know what it is to have your sight taken from you. Half of it, anyway." She had thought to say more, but emotion made her throat tight, and she lost her courage.

"We should get back to the camp," Ruatha said finally, turning to go, but Thranduil's hand caught her wrist, and she froze, looking up into his cloudy eyes.

"Wait," said the elf quietly. "…you are right. My sight was taken from me not so long ago. It pains me to admit it, but I cannot travel home like this. Not alone." It was a hard thing to admit, especially to a human, but it was the truth. She seemed to understand, though. At least, better than most would.

"I doubt you will find someone willing to go back to that forest," Ruatha responded after a moment of silence, her voice apologetic but resigned. "And even if you could, there are none who know its paths well enough to keep you both safe."

There was another beat of silence, and Ruatha gently took the elf's hand. "But we cannot know for sure until we ask Gareth," she finished. "He might know the way. He used to be a ranger, I hear." She started to walk back toward the camp, leading Thranduil by the hand so that he wouldn't be lost in the crowd. "If anyone knows the way, it's him."

~oOo~

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The rain had begun to pour again not long after Thranduil and Ruatha's return, and Gareth had decided it would be best to wait until the downpour eased up a bit before they tried to travel onward. The people of the village agreed, having no desire to become even more cold and wet, and they were huddled under the few sparse trees that grew near the river to try and keep dry, tarps tossed over the wagons and the animals set loose to graze nearby. The horses and goats didn't seem to mind the rain as much, it seemed. Some took the opportunity to have a midafternoon meal, though trying to light a fire in the rain and the damp was fruitless, so there was naught but bread and cheese to be had while the rain continued to pour down in sheets.

Thunder rumbled overhead, the grey sky showing no signs of letting up, and though it was cold and damp, many of the villagers were quietly grateful for the time to rest their weary legs. Thranduil sat beneath a drooping willow tree with Ruatha and her family, all of them too cold to make much conversation. Lyssa sat shivering in her mother's lap, while Ruatha had wrapped herself in a wool cloak that was only slightly damp in an attempt to keep warm. Thranduil was wearing one of Gareth's spare shirts, which was slightly too loose on him, but it was far better than nothing. A dog had curled up near his feet, the skinny thing hoping to share warmth with someone, and Thranduil stroked its coarse fur absently, his attention elsewhere.

With naught else to do but wait, the Elvenking took the time to think hard on what had happened, and what was to come. Dagok and his rabble were still a concern, but there was nothing that could be done about that now, so it was useless to worry on such a thing. His escape from the orcs was a bit of a blur now, the memories obscured with adrenaline and the exhaustion that followed, but what had come after that lingered in Thranduil's mind…

His dreams had been strange, and while that was not typically cause for concern, Thranduil was not certain they were only dreams. They stood out starkly in his memory like something real, and it brought to mind an ability he had not used in many centuries… Not since Lianna had died. He had not slipped into another's skin in millennia, yet the feeling was so familiar that it could be nothing else. The elk dreams had not come to him since he was a child, and long since had he been able to control the power. But the bond he shared with the forest thanks to his Avarin upbringing had not diminished with time, and even now it pulled at his very soul. _The forest calls to me_ , Thranduil mused silently. _But for what?_

He did not recognize the other forms in his dreams. Not the other elk, for there were few who took such a form, and he was certain the wolf was one he had never encountered before. But there was something that felt insistently familiar about the white wolf, something instinctive that drew him towards the creature. Thranduil wasn't yet sure if he was right to heed the call, but it felt somehow certain that he should do so.

Pulled back to the present by someone draping a blanket over his shoulders, Thranduil looked up out of habit, realizing the futility of such an action half a second later. He recognized Gareth by the heaviness of his footsteps and the smell of horse and wild mint leaves that seemed to linger around the man, who took a seat in the open space to Thranduil's left.

"You looked chilly," said Gareth by way of explanation.

Thranduil had a reply on the tip of his tongue, something about elves being far more resistant to the cold than men, but the warmth of the blanket was already seeping pleasantly into his skin, and he pulled it a bit closer around him. Instead, he said softly, "Thank you." Men were strange, fallible creatures, but Gareth had shown him only kindness.

"Five men have died from poisoned orc blades," Gareth began after a pause. "I took a group of scouts back to the battleground—the orcs are long gone, thank gods—to look for some clue as to what might be causing it."

Thranduil merely listened politely, not sure what this had to do with him.

"We didn't find anything of use to us," the man continued. "But this I knew could belong to no orc."

Gareth laid the familiar patterned leather sheath into Thranduil's hands, and the elf's eyes went wide as he recognized the weight of the blade within immediately. His hand slid to the familiar hilt of one of his elegant silver swords, though he dared not unsheathe it here. Its twin was nowhere to be found, but he could make do with just the one. "How did you get this?"

Gareth shrugged. "One of the orcs must have dropped it in their haste to leave," he replied. "I only found it. I knew an elf blade could belong to no other."

Thranduil laid the sword across his lap, fingers tracing the familiar pattern of curling vines along the sheath. "I do not know how to thank you," he said finally. The return of one of his weapons felt like a measure of stability in a situation where he otherwise had little control.

Gareth smiled crookedly. "Protect yourself," he responded. "Protect Rhiannon's children, should it come to that. That is all I would ask. Our journey will be long, and Ruatha has told me that you shall be coming with us."

"My home is many leagues north of here, nearly at the opposite edge of the forest," Thranduil admitted quietly. "I have little chance of making the return journey alone. Right now there is only one way for me to go." He had no choice but to remain with the woodmen. His only other option was to venture back into Mirkwood, alone and blind, and that was foolish at best- suicidal at worst.

"I can spare no men to accompany you home," Gareth said apologetically. "And even if I could, you would be hard-pressed to find any man who would willingly venture back into those woods."

Thranduil bowed his head. "I understand." There was nothing more he could do. Mirkwood's hopes lay with Legolas, then, and they would both have to play the hand that fate had dealt them.

 


	13. Mirkwood Matters

_~13~_

_Mirkwood Matters_

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_._

_._

Lainathiel had to ride hard to reach the edge of the forest in only five days, and it took two days more to cross the open fields and the river before it became too treacherous to cross on horseback. Normally the journey to Imladris took ten days, but if one was in a hurry it could be made seven, though it was hard on both horse and rider. But there was no time to spare; her message was urgent, and she knew that lives could depend on her swiftness in reaching Imladris. Now that she had made it across the Anduin, her last true obstacle lay in ascending the mountain pass.

The Misty Mountains were vast grey peaks looming over the mostly empty fields west of the Anduin like a great stone shadow. Lainathiel looked up at them with grim determination, allowing her horse to slow to a walk as they approached the base of the mountain. She was close, so close, but the path through the mountains was not easy to find, even for an elf. There was little in the way of vegetation as the mountains neared; only shrubs and a few stunted conifers clung to the rocky soil, and it made Lainathiel feel open and exposed after being in the forest for so long. However, there were far less places for potential enemies to hide, so she could be more certain that she was not being followed.

But one could never be too careful, especially in times such as these, so Lainathiel kept her bow in hand and her attention sharp as she and her mount wandered along the base of the mountain, looking for the easiest way to scale the steep incline. She felt like she was always glancing over her shoulder, alert to the point of being paranoid, but of a sudden she got the uncomfortable, prickling sensation that she wasn't alone.

Lainathiel nudged her horse to a stop, listening intently as the shrubs rustled nearby, and the crunch of loose stones gave away the sound of quiet footsteps… She sat stiffly without turning around in the saddle, letting the enemy think she was unaware as she slowly, quietly nocked an arrow to her bow. Her heartbeat quickened as she heard the footsteps come closer, but still she did not move. The enemy had to be close enough that she could not miss.

The shrubs rustled more insistently now, as if someone was stepping out of them, and Lainathiel reacted instantly, twisting in the saddle and firing off an arrow without hesitation before leaping down from the horse, ready to fight.

There was a cry of shock, followed by a rather creative curse in Quenya, and Lainathiel's eyes went wide as a dark-haired elf came forth from behind a few short, twisted firs, hands held up in a gesture of surrender to try to placate her.

"By the Valar, woman, you nearly took my ear off with that shot!" chuckled the dark-haired elf, and Lainathiel's expression immediately turned to one of relief as she recognized him.

Her shoulders relaxed, and she lowered her bow, letting out a breathless laugh. "Sorry, Elladan," she said with a small smile, feeling overwhelmingly relieved that he was not an orc or some other sinister thing. "Just being careful. It's not exactly safe out here."

He gave a playful snort. "You call that careful?"

Suddenly another, nearly identical elf emerged from the brush, leading two horses by the reins. "Hey, he's not Elladan, _I'm_ Elladan!" he protested, mockingly offended. "And you call yourself our friend."

Lainathiel shook her head, though she couldn't hide her amusement. They were so alike that it _was_ hard to tell them apart at times. "Sorry, Elrohir," she said with a glance at the first elf, who snickered.

"Just kidding. I am Elladan," he grinned. "He's Elrohir." He jerked a thumb at his twin, who wore an identical grin and looked very pleased with himself.

"You two are insufferable," Lainathiel said with a roll of her eyes, though she was smiling as well. "…but it's good to see you." It was a stroke of good fortune that she would run into the sons of Elrond at a time like this. Not only was she relieved that she wouldn't have to navigate the unfamiliar mountain pass on her own, she would be among friends, which was always a good thing out in the wilderness. The twins were good friends of Legolas, who had introduced her to them, and the four of them got along well.

"It's good to see you as well," said Elrohir, coming to stand beside his brother with their horses. "But what brings you all the way out here?" It was unusual for wood elves to venture this far west, though these were indeed unusual times.

"And how is Legolas?" Elladan added. "We haven't seen him in a while."

The somber expression on Lainathiel's face told them the news was not good. "That is why I am here," she said after a heartbeat's pause, looking at both of them. "I carry a message I must deliver to your father."

The twins exchanged worried glances. "Has something happened to Legolas?" Elladan asked, concerned.

Lainathiel hesitated, wondering how much she should tell them. "No—well, yes," she said finally, unsure of how to even begin. She sighed. "…I would prefer to tell this story only once. If you will take me to Lord Elrond, I would tell all three of you what has happened."

"Fair enough," said Elrohir, though his eyes were dark with concern. "The pass is not far. If we hurry, we can be home in a day's ride."

"I ask that we make haste," Lainathiel said, already mounting her horse again. "For Legolas' sake, and for all of Mirkwood."

~oOo~

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One day's ride turned into nearly three after the damp mountain rock turned icy and slick from the spray of the waterfalls, the cold and high altitude making it feel as though winter was already settling over the mountain, though the twins assured Lainathiel that the snows would not start for at least another month. It was slow going through the icy rock, and more often than not they had to dismount and lead the horses through particularly treacherous stretches of path.

By the time they reached the gates of Imladris, all three were cold and tired from pushing such a breakneck pace through the mountains and sleeping for only a few hours at a time, but Lainathiel was not dissuaded. She could not rest just yet.

"I must see Lord Elrond," were the first words from her lips when they reached the gates, and the two guards on duty looked rather surprised. "I have an urgent message to deliver."

"Who is she?" One of the guards addressed Elladan and Elrohir, ignoring Lainathiel entirely.

"A messenger from Mirkwood," replied Elladan, slightly annoyed that the guard wouldn't take Lainathiel's word for it. They had seen her here before, after all. And with Legolas, no less! "What she says is true. She's a friend; let her through."

"As you wish, Lord Elladan," the guard said with a nod, and the two sentries stood aside to let the three elves and their horses pass through.

Lainathiel felt a prickle of irritation as she remembered why her journeys to Imladris were so few. While Elladan and Elrohir and all the House of Elrond were kind enough, the rest of their Noldorin companions could be markedly less so. Some of the Noldor could be downright unpleasant with their snobbish dispositions and noted disdain for the wood elves, Sindarin and Silvan both. Fortunately, those types seemed to be few and far between, and Lainathiel tried not to dwell on it. She had more important things to take care of.

The three riders dismounted their horses, which were led away by stablehands whilst another familiar face appeared from the crowd to greet them. "It is good to see you two didn't get into too much trouble while you were out," Erestor remarked, nodding in greeting towards the twins. His gaze briefly shifted to Lainathiel. "And I see you brought a friend."

"It's good to see you too, Erestor," Elrohir said with a tired smile. "Our friend here is Lainathiel. She bears a message from Mirkwood."

"From Mirkwood?" repeated Erestor, raising an eyebrow. "Then I assume our message was received as well. Lord Elrond's journey to Lothlorien was delayed by unforeseen circumstances here at Imladris."

Lainathiel frowned, confused. "We received no message, my lord."

"Are you certain?" Erestor's brows knitted. "We sent Lindir ahead to inform your king nearly a fortnight prior."

"He did not arrive, my lord," Lainathiel said, shaking her head. "Though it is possible he has done so in my absence. Might I speak to Lord Elrond? I have an urgent message to deliver."

Erestor's gaze darkened ever so slightly. "I am afraid Lord Elrond is otherwise occupied at the moment," he said, remaining frustratingly vague. "He cannot see you now. But I will pass on your message if you will permit me to do so."

Lainathiel was hesitant. She did not want the whole of Imladris being privy to Mirkwood's affairs, and neither was she sure that she could trust Erestor completely. "I'm sorry, but Prince Legolas instructed me to give this letter to Lord Elrond himself," she said finally. "I must see him in person."

"Then you may be waiting for some time," replied Erestor coolly, his grey-blue eyes giving nothing away.

"Erestor, you need not be so vague," Elladan said with a raised eyebrow, crossing his arms. "She's no spy, she's a messenger. Not to mention a friend of Legolas'."

Lainathiel felt Elrohir grasp her by the elbow of a sudden, leading her off to the right. She was slightly surprised but made no noise, only looking at him in mild shock as they slipped away whilst Elladan bantered back and forth with Elrond's chief counselor.

"Follow me," said Elrohir in a low voice, meeting her gaze briefly as they turned a corner. "And do not mind Erestor. He's not usually so frosty; he just takes his job a little too seriously sometimes."

"I see," said Lainathiel, blinking in confusion as Elrohir led her down mazelike corridors of stone, grey light pouring in from outside. "Where are we going?"

"To see my father," Elrohir replied, a familiar light of mischief flashing briefly in his eyes as they rounded another corner. "Elladan will keep Erestor busy for us." He pushed open the elegant wooden door that led to the healing halls with a quiet creak, peering inside to make sure they were not interrupting something delicate. After a moment he stepped inside and gestured for Lainathiel to follow.

Inside, Lainathiel was briefly shocked by what she saw. Five unfamiliar elves were lying in beds in varying states of semi-consciousness, being tended to by healers, who barely spared the newcomers a second glance, except to confirm they were not injured. Judging from the severity of their wounds, Lainathiel guessed that something terrible had happened, though she could not be sure of what. There was so much blood… She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She forced herself to look away from the sight and follow Elrohir to the other side of the room, where Elrond was rinsing blood from his hands in a basin of water. It took the elf lord a few seconds to notice their presence, but his gaze seemed to brighten a bit when he set eyes upon his son. "Elrohir," he said with a relieved smile. "I trust you and your brother returned safely from the mountains?"

"Yes, father," Elrohir replied with a nod. "But we have something more important to discuss right now." He gestured to Lainathiel, who briefly dipped her head in respect.

"Lord Elrond, I am sorry for the timing, but I have an urgent message from Prince Legolas," she explained quickly. She glanced around briefly, then continued with her head bowed. "…my lord, Mirkwood asks for your aid."

Elrond's gaze darkened in concern, and his expression was grave. He seemed to know what she was talking about, and that only made Lainathiel worry further. "Let us discuss this in private," he said after a pause, drying his hands with a towel and already heading for the door. "Come to my study. Both of you."

Lainathiel and Elrohir hurried to follow him down the corridor and around the corner, where they came to a secluded room near the vast labyrinth of the library. Elrohir shut the heavy door behind them, and Lainathiel was briefly startled by the presence of a fourth elf already in the room.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with magnificent blond hair unusual for a Noldo. Lainathiel could recognize him, vaguely, but she couldn't put a name to the face, and she glanced briefly at Elrohir, her eyes asking the question for her.

"Always one step ahead of us, aren't you, Glorfindel?" Elrohir remarked, mostly for Lainathiel's benefit, and she mentally noted the name, briefly wondering if he was the same Glorfindel from the stories she'd heard about the fall of Gondolin. As a Silvan elf, she heard little and saw even less of their Noldorin kin, so she was rather out of the loop on such matters.

"I was merely waiting for Lord Elrond to return," said Glorfindel, his gaze trained on Elrond. "I wished to inquire about the state of my patrol since we had returned."

"I have done all I can," Elrond replied, though his expression was grave. "Their wounds were many, and orc blades cut deep. There is naught else we can do but wait and let them rest."

Glorfindel let out a frustrated sigh. "It should not have come to this," he muttered, vexed. "We were ambushed, but I still do not know how the battle was lost so badly..." He barely seemed to notice Lainathiel or Elrohir, clearly caught up in his own consternation.

Elrohir cleared his throat suddenly. "Father, I think our messenger still has something to tell you," he said. He was impatient to hear the story himself, really. If something had happened to Legolas, he wanted to know.

"Yes, of course," said Elrond, his gaze turning to Lainathiel. "Speak, child. You are among friends."

Lainathiel hesitated only a moment, glancing uncertainly at Glorfindel before pushing away her suspicions. If Elrond trusted him, then she could be certain he was a friend. "My lord Legolas bade me give you this," she said as she drew the letter from the pocket of her tunic and handed it to Elrond.

Elrond unsealed the envelope and unfolded the letter with a crinkle of parchment, a tense silence settling over the room as they waited with bated breath to know its contents. Elrond's eyes darkened as he read over the message, and his countenance was grim when he let the parchment fall to the desk. "…this is terrible news, indeed."

"Well, tell us what it said!" Glorfindel interjected, impatient. The anticipation was more than he could take, and he was only saying what Elrohir too was thinking.

But it was Lainathiel who spoke first. "King Thranduil has been taken captive by orcs," she began finally, quietly. "He was ambushed on the road through the forest, after he had departed for the council meeting in Lorien. We discovered the scene only by chance, when the Prince and I rode south on the same road."

Shock was visible on the faces of all three of her Noldorin companions, and there was more silence as the gravity of the situation settled over them, heavy and grim.

"And what of Legolas?" Elladan's voice spoke up suddenly, and Lainathiel glanced up to see that he and Erestor had been standing in the doorway for some time now. She sighed. So much for secrecy.

"Legolas rode to Dol Guldur alone," she continued quietly, staring at the floor. Just speaking the words made dread twist her gut, and her chest felt tight with worry and grief. "He hoped to rescue the King from the fortress where he was held prisoner, and…" She fell silent for a moment, and when she continued her voice thick with grief. "He has not returned. We… we fear the worst."

"No…" Elladan breathed, eyes wide. "Legolas is…?" He trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence, refusing to believe such a thing. He shook his head, vehement. "No. He can't be. If Legolas were dead, you would know. The orcs would have made a show of it."

Lainathiel only shook her head, not knowing who or what to believe. She wanted to believe both Legolas and Thranduil were alive, she wanted it with all her heart, but she also knew that that chance grew slimmer with every day that passed. "He penned this letter only a day before he left," she said, her eyes fixated on Elrond. "He had hoped that you would help us."

Then her gaze swept over the room, lingering briefly on each of them. "Legolas placed his hopes with you all. His friends. Allies. We know that old prejudices still linger between our peoples, but he would ask you to set them aside. Will you not aid us?"

Elrond closed his eyes briefly, letting out a quiet sigh. "I had foreseen that something dark, something terrible would come about," he began gravely. "A shadow lies over Mirkwood. I had fervently hoped it would not come to pass, but…" He looked toward Lainathiel. "Legolas and Thranduil are tangled in the strings of fate, a twisted and many-forked path which even I cannot discern. All I know is that their journeys are not yet over."

"So they both still live?" she pressed, hopeful. If she could know that much, it would be enough.

"There is nothing I can tell you with absolute certainty," Elrond said gently. "But my heart tells me that they yet live."

Lainathiel gave a faint smile. "Thank you," she said sincerely. Even if it was not certain, she felt as though some of the dread hanging over her like a cloud had been lessened.

"You said the king was ambushed on the road?" Glorfindel enquired suddenly, focused on Lainathiel. "What sigil did these orcs bear?"

She looked up at him. "Some of them wore the mark of a red eye," she said quietly. "We have seen it carved into the trees, a dark thing that unsettles all who see it."

"A red eye… then the rumors are true," said Glorfindel gravely. "The scattered forces of Sauron are regrouping. For what dark purpose I do not know, but it does not bode well for any of us."

"Let's not be too hasty to jump to conclusions," Erestor cut in, frowning. "What evidence have we that Sauron is behind all this? All we know for certain is that he was vanquished thousands of years ago."

"That is hardly the point, Erestor," Glorfindel retorted testily. "With or without Sauron, these orcs are gathering for war. The ones who attacked my patrol bore the same symbol."

Lainathiel frowned. "I saw the state of the elves in your patrol on my way here," she began. "They were cut half to ribbons, and yet you haven't a scratch on you."

"I do not know," Glorfindel replied sharply, agitated. "They would not fight me as they did my companions. Instead they tried to pin me to the ground and bind my hands whilst my patrol was nearly slaughtered. We barely escaped with our lives."

"Perhaps they were trying to take you captive, just as they had King Thranduil," Elladan spoke up. "They seem to have taken an interest in elven prisoners as of late."

"That is enough," Elrond announced suddenly, holding up a hand to quiet them. "It will do us no good to stand here and debate all night."

There was a long pause. "No," said Lainathiel quietly. "It will not." She looked at Elrond imploringly. "You have not answered my question. Will you help us?"

"What aid would the woodland realm ask of Imladris?" asked Erestor, grey-blue eyes glancing from Elrond to Lainathiel.

"Come to Mirkwood with me, my lord," Lainathiel said pleadingly, her gaze never leaving Elrond. "We can ask this of no other. Never before has there been a time like this in our history."

"What makes you think that I can help your kingdom when you cannot?" inquired Elrond, not unkindly. He wanted to help; truly, he did. But he also knew that Thranduil was a proud king; he would resent the very idea of a Noldorin elf managing his kingdom while he was away, even if it was for the greater good of the realm. It was a precarious idea, for some of the woodland elves felt much the same.

"Legolas thought that you could help," Lainathiel responded, utterly sincere. "That is enough for me. I would see his will carried out if I could."

"I know what you're thinking, father." Elrohir spoke up. He had always been the more studious of the brothers, and his political senses were keen. "King Thranduil has always been reluctant to accept our aid, but I think he will not mind if it means his people and his kingdom are kept safe."

"You are right, Elrohir," Elrond said after a long pause. "It is our duty to aid our woodland kin. I will go to Mirkwood and do what I can to help."

Lainathiel smiled in relief, feeling a bit of the tension of the last several weeks ease from her shoulders. Mirkwood would be safe after all. _I have done what you asked of me, Legolas. I only hope it will be enough._

"Then you may count us in as well," said Elladan, standing side by side with his brother, next to Lainathiel. "Legolas is our friend, and we would do everything we can to help him."

"I'm coming, too." Glorfindel stepped forward, completing their little circle in the center of the room. "If Mirkwood is half as dangerous as you say, then I have a responsibility to protect my lord. And these two troublemakers." He smirked, glancing at Elladan and Elrohir, who didn't get a chance to protest as Erestor pointedly cleared his throat.

"If you are all gallivanting off to Mirkwood, then I suppose that leaves me to sit and twiddle my thumbs?" He said the words with only mock offense, and his tone was light.

"I leave Rivendell in your care, Erestor," Elrond said with a gracious smile. "It seems we have our party assembled." His gaze swept over the four elves before him. "And all of you should get some rest ere we depart."

"Indeed. The way to Mirkwood is long, and I fear it is more treacherous than before," said Glorfindel, blue eyes dark and serious.

"Do not fret overmuch," Lainathiel assured him. "I know the forest well, and we will take the safest route we can while still making haste." The unspoken thought lingered in the air even as all of them filed out the door, hoping that a safe route through the forest still existed, and hoping further that they would not be too late.

~oOo~

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Legolas' shoulder had healed remarkably well thanks to the Avari's knowledge of healing and medicinal plants, ones that staved off infection and neutralized even the vilest of poisons, and thanks to Melwasúl, who had made sure Legolas rested properly. He would have a scar from the wound, but Melwasúl assured him that in time that too would fade. But Legolas was not concerned with that. He was only relieved that he could again draw his bow effortlessly, without so much as a twinge from his shoulder, and use his knives to deadly efficiency once more.

Their time had not been spent idly, either. Melwasúl and Ithiriel had instructed Legolas in some of the ways of the Avari, teaching him to shoot straight while riding a horse bareback, how to commune more deeply with the trees, and how to use his gifts to make sense of his connection with the forest. The wolf dreams no longer frightened him, and he was growing accustomed to his abilities as a skinchanger, able to call the dreams as he wished them now, and able to banish them when necessary.

It was a strange experience, slipping into the skin of the white wolf, for when he came back to himself Legolas remembered the details of the experience as a blur despite how clear and real it felt when he was there. Melwasúl had explained that his animal senses as the wolf were much sharper than what he was used to in his own form, which could not hope to process all the sensory input clearly, but it still frustrated Legolas that he could not relive the experiences in the same clarity in which he had first seen and felt them. The wolf's form thought in emotions and instincts, things that could not be put into words, and in that form they made sense, though back in his own body the memories of those thoughts were little more than a blur of sights and scents. He likened it to a page one had written the night before and then spilled ink over the next morning, muddying the writings beyond recognition.

And as much as Legolas wanted to know more about his mother and the place she grew up, now that he was healed he knew that he could stay no longer. Mirkwood still needed him, and Elbereth only knew what had been going on while he was away. Something urged him to return, and swiftly.

"It is a long ride back to the north of the forest, you know," Melwasúl was saying as she and Legolas walked back to the village, returning with several others from bathing and doing laundry in the river. It was a bit of a cool day for it, but with autumn already upon them, it was likely the last chance they would get to wash in the river itself. When the air turned frigid, they would have to make the trek to the hot springs at the base of the Mountains of Mirkwood, a much longer walk.

"It will not get any shorter if I stay," Legolas responded, glancing at her. "I have been away for far too long already."

"I understand," she said, combing her fingers through her damp hair. "You do what you must."

Legolas was silent for a few moments as they came to the familiar tall trees where the elven village was situated. "I must speak to Celebrynd before I leave," he said finally. "Where can I find him?" There was still something he had to ask of the Avarin lord.

"He'll be out beyond the meadow to the east of the village," Melwasúl replied, stopping by the edge of the staircase that led up one of the many tall trees. "He probably knows you're looking for him, honestly. You'll find him."

"Thank you," Legolas said with a nod, glancing back at her as he kept walking. "I shall be back later."

"Good luck!" she called to him, already disappearing around the trunk of the tree as she took the staircase up towards the canopy.

 _I'll need it, talking to Celebrynd_ , Legolas thought wryly. While the elf lord was powerful and wise, he had a confounding habit of answering both yes and no to most questions one could ask of him, and answering most other questions without really saying anything at all.

He decided to forgo putting his boots back on until they were completely dry, so he left them at the steps of the tree dwelling and headed for the meadow path barefoot, remembering the way he had come the first time he met Celebrynd. He passed the drooping branches of the willow tree in the clearing and found nothing, only the quietly musical chiming of the glass ornaments in the trees. Legolas looked up briefly, taking in the varied spiral shapes of the colored glass ornaments and wondering what purpose they served. Another question for another time, he knew, and so continued on past the meadow, wandering through the forest and looking around for signs of Celebrynd or the sable-furred elk often seen with him.

Legolas caught a glimpse of dark fur and white antlers through the foliage, and he came upon the great elk standing near the edge of a pond with water as blue as sapphires, and next to the beast was Celebrynd, staring into the pond's depths like it was a seeing-stone.

"What have you come to ask?" Celebrynd wondered without turning around, seemingly already aware of Legolas' presence.

"You don't already know?" Legolas asked, the question only half a jest as he came to stand at the pond's bank, the silty ground cool beneath his bare feet.

"I don't, actually," Celebrynd said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My gift is not all-seeing. But I have a feeling."

Legolas sighed. "I have so many questions," he said after a moment. "But not the time to ask them. I cannot stay here." He was needed back home in Mirkwood, but still he was torn. "…but I do not know which way to go."

"You wish to return to your people," Celebrynd observed, absently stroking the elk's neck. "You feel you have a duty to them."

"Of course I do," Legolas said, glancing at the amber-eyed elf. "It was foolish of me to run off when I should have been doing my part to help the kingdom." There was a pause, and he looked down at the crystal-clear water. "...yet still I fear for my father's fate."

"And you do not know whether to go to him or to your people," Celebrynd finished for him, speaking aloud the words that hung heavy in the air around them. His tone was not judgmental, only matter-of-fact. "It will undoubtedly be a hard decision for you."

"They are taking him to Gundabad," Legolas said quietly, his voice pained. "There I know not what horrors await him." _Delicate_ was not a word Legolas would typically use to describe his father, but when they met at Dol Guldur, Thranduil had looked tired and pale and in pain, undoubtedly having suffered at the orcs' hands already. Thranduil was strong and stubborn, but in the darkness of Gundabad, at Dagok's mercy, even he would eventually reach his breaking point.

Celebrynd's eyes were gentle when he looked upon Legolas again, and he placed a hand lightly upon the Prince's shoulder. "I cannot tell you all of what I see, but I know that your father has eluded the grasp of the dark forces," he said softly. "For now he is in safe hands."

Legolas looked up suddenly, his gaze hopeful. "So he escaped from the orcs? Where is he now?" If Thranduil was no longer held captive by Dagok, then that meant he would be trying to find his way back to Mirkwood. Perhaps their paths would cross again sooner than he thought…

Celebrynd merely shook his head. "I did not see where or with whom," he said almost apologetically. "I only know that he is safe for the moment."

"Still, that is good news," Legolas said after a moment, quelling his hopes. It was an immense relief to hear that his father had escaped Dagok's clutches, but such news only made the future more uncertain. The path he took from here on out would be a choice between his father and his kingdom, and neither would be easy. In his mind, Legolas knew already what he had to choose, but the urgings of his heart made the decision difficult to bear.

Celebrynd could sense the Prince's conflict, the war in his heart between loyalty to his kingdom and loyalty to his father. He could see that Legolas loved Thranduil very much, but love intermingled with guilt and grief and pain, a hurt that had long gone unacknowledged between father and son. "Go home, Legolas," he said softly, amber eyes staring into blue. "You know in your heart that it is right."

Legolas could not hold Celebrynd's gaze for more than a moment, and he bowed his head, grieved. "I feel as though I am leaving him behind," he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "I cannot lose him as I have lost my mother…" Finally his fear was given voice, and the words seemed heavy as stones between them.

Celebrynd's eyes were vaguely sad when Legolas met his gaze again, and the Prince didn't yet know what that meant. "Search within yourself, Legolas. You will know what to do when the time comes." He smiled, and in his eyes the Prince saw such a depth of wisdom and sadness that he could not hope to comprehend. "You have a touch of destiny about you."

Legolas frowned. Everyone around him seemed determined to speak to him in riddles for some reason. "I don't understand."

Celebrynd's eyes were unreadable, but a faint smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps not. But in time you will."

"Perhaps," Legolas said. "But there is something I must do first."

~oOo~

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_The dream felt clearer this time, or perhaps it was because slipping into the wolf's skin made the world seem sharper, more detailed. More wild. He could hear the rustling of the leaves like they were bells chiming in the background, the wingbeats of birds like drumbeats in time with the wind. He could hear the chattering of squirrels conversing, the nervous giggles of rabbits in their warrens, the raucous gossip of crows above the canopy. He paid them little mind—what he searched for did not lie with the forest, not this time._

_The sky was gray and clouded, and past the western edge of the forest Legolas wandered over old tracks, trampled grass and scored earth, broken arrowheads and slicks of mud mixed with dark blood. A great army marched north, obvious from the thick stench of orc on the trail if not by their footprints. The scent was strong, for there were many, but Legolas could scent nothing else amongst the overwhelming stink of bloodlust and vile intentions._

_He wandered over the site where the orcs had camped, their scent still thick in the air, mixed with wet ash and mud. He could smell the cold iron of their weapons, the coppery tang of blood… The wolf suddenly lifted his head, ears pricked forward in interest. There was another scent here, faint but detectable to his sharp nose. Not Orc, but Man._

_Legolas followed the scent, turning southward to where it seemed to coalesce, getting stronger, and amid the musky smells of horse and man, alongside the sharp tang of fear, he could smell something sweeter. Something that sang with the light imbued only to Ilúvatar's Firstborn._

_Blood. Elf blood._

_Legolas broke into a run, bounding along the trail of hoofprints that led southward and merged with a larger group of Man-scents, his heartbeat quickening. This was the trail he sought; he could feel it somewhere deep within. The trail was faint, mixed in with many Men and other animals, but now that he had caught the scent, he would not let it go. This was the path Thranduil had taken, he was sure of it._

_Legolas ran to follow the path, jaws hanging open to pant, his white fur spattered with mud, but he did not stop until he reached the southern tip of the forest, and the wide expanse of the plains stretched out before him. He stopped finally, sniffing this way and that to try to pick up the scent again._

_But there was nothing to follow. He could smell only rain and wet grass and soggy riverbank. The rains had washed the plains clean of any scents, of Man or Elf or otherwise, and there was nothing to track, no matter how Legolas wished he could follow._

_The white wolf let out a soft whine, pawing at the muddy earth. There was nothing more he could do, but the instinctual tug towards something_ familiar _would not abate, and it grieved him that the trail was lost. Legolas stared out at the plains, his gaze sweeping over the river and the mountains and the distant horizon, then tipped his head back to loose a mournful howl, the sound echoing into the distance._

 


	14. A Long Way From Home

_~9~_

_A Long Way From Home_

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Thranduil sat huddled under the tree, his back against the bark as rain poured down from overhead in heavy sheets, soaking him to the skin and making the ground soft and marshy. The occasional rumble of thunder was audible in the distance, but it was never close by, and it didn't do much to disturb the masses of orcs camped near the edge of the forest, though their displeasure was audible in their growls and guttural swears.

The heavy shackles around Thranduil's wrists chafed, and he was so cold he was almost shivering in the pouring rain, making it useless to try to sleep or get any sort of rest. He sighed quietly and leaned back against the tree, feeling cold raindrops splash onto his face and run down his cheeks. At least it served to wash off most of the blood, though his head still ached from being knocked unconscious.

He wasn't sure how many days it had been at this point; it could have been one or two or three, but the head wound had made his sense of time very fuzzy since they had left Dol Guldur. Being on the road as the orcs' prisoner wasn't much better than being in the fortress as their prisoner, but at least he could be out of that damn rat-infested cell. He had deduced from listening to the orcs' chatter that their eventual destination would be Gundabad, though it was uncertain how long that journey would take, and that gave Thranduil a slight ray of hope. Such a large group of orcs would move slowly, and that would give him time to perhaps find some method of slipping away without detection and hiding in the forest until they moved on.

It was a bit of a long shot, but it was all Thranduil had at the moment. The details would have to wait until he found an opportunity, he reasoned, and it was to his advantage that he knew these forests like the back of his hand. But of course Dagok made sure that Thranduil was never left without a guard, even if he believed he had beaten most of the fight out of the elf. He was going to prove Dagok wrong, of course, and he only wished he could have the satisfaction of seeing the look on the orc's face when he found out his prize had slipped through his fingers.

Thranduil reached up with a clank of chains to unclasp his tattered, soaking wet cloak with a sigh, letting it fall from his shoulders to pool around the spot where he was sitting. It wasn't doing him much good at this point, anyway. The storm didn't seem to be letting up, either, and he was mildly concerned that he might drown if he fell asleep in this deluge.

He immediately tensed at the sound of footsteps splashing clumsily nearby, aware of the presence that came with them. Their gait was too heavy, too clumsy to be an elf; but, oddly, too light to be an orc. The source of the footsteps settled itself directly in front of him, kneeling in the mud with a squelch, and Thranduil was wary but curious. "…what do you want?" he asked in the Common Tongue, voice low.

"I'm here to help you," said the Man in a hushed tone, though his voice was husky, and Thranduil pictured him with a shaggy beard and hair, as Men were known to have.

Thranduil couldn't help but be skeptical. "Forgive me if I don't believe you," he said with only a hint of cynicism, though his tone was not entirely dismissive. "I don't believe we've met."

"I know," the Man replied, sounding hurried, and the elf could feel his urgent gaze. "But you don't have a lot of choices right now, and neither do I. My name is Gareth, and some of my people are in the same situation you are."

Thranduil kept his head down, though, listening to the rain pattering on the leaves of the trees. "All I have is your word on that," he said coolly. "But if that is true, then why are you coming to me? As far as you know, I am just as much your enemy as they are." He didn't know quite what to think at this point, more confused than anything else. Why would a human offer his help to an elf he had never met before? It was a bit suspicious, though Thranduil had to admit that his current situation couldn't really get much worse.

"Because I think we can help each other," Gareth said in a low, conspiratory tone. "And I know you hate those orcs more than you hate someone like me."

"Perhaps you are right," said Thranduil, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "And perhaps you are wrong." He didn't know this Gareth's intentions just yet, and he was unwilling to take the chance that the man might be lying. In his current state, he wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight if the situation took a turn for the worse.

Gareth seemed to become frustrated, letting out a breath through his nose. "Don't you want to escape from here?" he asked urgently. "We're a bit short on time."

"Then leave while you still have the chance," replied the elf without hesitation. Thranduil had no reason to trust Gareth, and he thought he would rather take his chances with the orcs rather than humans. Orcs were easier to outwit. "Go. Before you wake the orcs with your babbling."

"Alright then," the man acquiesced with a sigh. "I can see we're getting nowhere with this."

Somewhere, an owl hooted in the trees, causing both of them to stiffen. It was hard to startle an elf, but this was a bit of a unique and vulnerable situation for Thranduil, who was not accustomed to such things. The sound was not unusual, though Thranduil noticed that change in the man's demeanor immediately.

"I have to go now," said Gareth in a hurried whisper as he stood up with a rustle of his cloak and the sound of his boots in the grass, already disappearing. His gait was purposeful, almost impatient. "But I'll be back tomorrow. Good luck, my friend. And don't do anything foolish."

Thranduil wasn't quite sure what Gareth could have meant by that, so he just ignored the Man instead, listening to his footsteps fade away. _I might say the same to you._

~oOo~

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Thranduil didn't attempt to sleep for the remainder of that night, instead listening to the drizzling rain until it began to let up around dawn, when the camp finally began to stir. He listened to the grunts and growls of the orcs, the irritated whines and snarls of wargs, and the sound of marshy footsteps in the now-saturated ground. It was still early, the orcs still drowsy with sleep and drink, and the air was cool and damp from the recent rains.

"Bloody lucky we didn't all drown in that rain," muttered an orc nearby, his footsteps squelching in the mud as he picked up tent materials and clanging pots and pans.

"Damn right," grunted another orc. "Dagok's out of his mind if he thinks we'll make it to Gundabad in a fortnight."

"A fortnight? There's no bloody way!" the first orc snorted. "And what are we gonna do with _that_?"

Thranduil could feel their eyes on him, and he pretended to look disinterested, as if he hadn't been listening at all. Drawing attention was the last thing he needed right now. He was still thinking about his encounter with the mysterious man last night, wondering how this Gareth had found him and why he was really here. No man would risk being in any kind of proximity to an army of orcs without a very good reason, and the rescue of an elf he'd never met did not seem a valid reason. Thranduil had a suspicion that there was something more going on here, though he couldn't guess at what.

The sound of heavy footsteps in the mud pulled the elf king from his reverie, and he tensed, recognizing Dagok's long strides and heavy steps. He didn't bother to look up, refusing to give the orc the reaction he wanted. "You'll not make it to Gundabad in less than six weeks in this weather," he said coolly, hoping to catch the orc captain off his guard. "Does the forest frighten you so?" _It should_ , he thought darkly.

A deep snarl rumbled from Dagok's throat. "It seems that spider venom has not dulled the sharpness of your tongue, elf," he growled. Then he let out a chuckle from behind his jagged teeth, seeming smug. "But your sight is another matter."

Thranduil bit back the scathing retort he had on the tip of his tongue. Of course Dagok had come to gloat. "You would know as well as any," he said coldly, not appreciating the orc dredging up those memories. Bastard.

Dagok reached down and hauled the elf to his feet, using one huge hand to tilt Thranduil's head back and look into his eyes, which were no longer clear and blue but cloudy and pale, staring sightlessly past Dagok's head. "How the mighty have fallen," the orc grinned, his voice taunting. He released Thranduil with a shove that sent the elf stumbling back a few steps before finding his balance.

"You would not have done this were you not afraid," Thranduil said in a low voice, a challenging edge to the words. "Creatures of the dark always fear those of the light."

"You know not of what you speak," Dagok sneered. "Your forest is tainted with darkness so thick that it whispers even to you, elf. Spiders spin webs so thick your archers cannot shoot through them. Your kingdom is crumbling, and yet you claim that darkness must fear light?" He let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Pathetic."

Thranduil speared Dagok with what he hoped was a convincing glare, blindness be damned. "You are a coward by nature, a viper in the grass, and that is why you run. You stand no chance against the elves of Mirkwood." He was intentionally provoking the orc, even if he knew it was unwise. He refused to be cowed into silence by some brute like Dagok. If this orc thought he could tame the Elvenking, he was dead wrong.

Dagok spat some unintelligible curse in Orcish, enraged, and lashed out quicker than would have been expected of an orc his size, backhanding Thranduil hard enough to send the elf staggering back several steps.

However, this did end up being for the best, as an arrow suddenly whizzed past the spot where Thranduil had been standing only moments before and speared another orc through the neck. Briefly stunned, the other orcs, including Dagok, merely stared as a gush of black blood poured down the orc's front, watching him collapse to the ground with a last death gurgle.

More arrows began flying from the trees, and the sudden onslaught spurred the orcs into action. "Don't just stand there!" roared Dagok, already unsheathing his sword. "Get your weapons, you maggots! Kill them!"

The orcs scrambled to comply, and the camp was plunged into chaos in a matter of seconds. Arrows flew from every direction, and screams mixed with roars pierced the air among the cacophony of clashing weapons and stampeding footfalls. Heart pounding and adrenaline rushing, a part of Thranduil longed to join in the fray, but all he could do was dodge arrows and remain out of the way, weaponless and sightless. The din of battle was disorienting, and it was all he could do to keep his wits about him, hoping as he felt his way from tree to tree that he would be able to slip away whilst the orcs were preoccupied.

Thranduil hadn't the faintest idea of who would be foolish enough to attack the orc army head-on like this, but it was an opportunity he couldn't afford to pass up. He heard no elven voices in the fray, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the attackers' strategy, quite unlike any elven warriors. As much as he had hoped for a well-armed Mirkwood patrol to happen upon them, it was exceedingly unlikely. But just who would be brave enough—or rather foolish enough—to antagonize an army of orcs? It was like throwing stones at a nest of Mirkwood spiders.

Hoofbeats suddenly skidded to a stop just in front of him, and the whinny of a horse made Thranduil nearly jump out of his skin, heart leaping into his throat.

"When I told you not to do anything foolish," came a familiar human voice, "this is not what I had in mind." It was Gareth astride the horse, and Thranduil had never been so relieved to meet a human in his entire immortal life.

"This was your doing, not mine," Thranduil reminded him pointedly, silently pleased that he was even able to get the words out of his mouth, given how scrambled his brain felt at the moment. Without his sight, the noise of battle seemed overwhelming, and it was difficult to draw his attention away from the cacophony of screams.

"Let's argue about it later," Gareth said quickly, and he reached down to grab Thranduil by the arm, pulling him up onto the horse. "We can't keep the orcs distracted forever, and if we don't hurry we'll lose our cover!" He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, and the beast took off at a gallop, heading towards the safety of the thicker woods.

Soon they were joined by the rest of the fighters, both on foot and on horseback, and as Thranduil listened to their voices and their footfalls he deduced there were shockingly few of them. Perhaps fifty men at the most, attacking legions of orcs? It didn't make sense, unless they were willing to take the risk of antagonizing the orcs in order to gain something. What that something was, though, Thranduil couldn't guess.

Once they reached the dense inner forest, only sparsely mapped with trails, any pursuers had ceased their efforts, and the horses slowed to a trot, allowing everyone to catch their breath. With the adrenaline from the fight slowly fading, Thranduil dimly realized how exhausted he was, and his wounds ached fiercely even as he fought to shut out the pain.

"Everyone alright?" Gareth called out to his men, bringing his horse around so he could survey their condition.

There was a chorus of general consensus from the group, with only a few grumbles from the wounded, but miraculously no one had been gravely injured or killed. It was a rare victory for these men, whose fortunes had been rather unlucky as of late.

Gareth let out a sigh of relief. "It seems we didn't lose anyone," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Thank the gods." He urged his horse forward again, briefly glancing over his shoulder at Thranduil. "You alright back there?"

For the moment, the elf made no reply. He was still uncertain of Gareth's intentions, and this made him wary of trusting the man completely. Gareth had quite possibly saved Thranduil's life in that skirmish, and that merited at least the benefit of the doubt, but the Elvenking had lived long enough to know that noble deeds were often carried out for far darker reasons.

"Shy, are you?" Gareth chuckled, and his tone was light for someone who'd just fought a battle. "Worry not, elf, we harbor no ill will towards your kind. Certainly not like those orcs."

Thranduil was able to relax slightly upon hearing that, and he decided that Gareth's words were genuine when he could find no trace of deception in his tone. That meant he could speak a bit more freely with this human. "While I am grateful for your help," he began, cautious, "I must ask why. There are not many men who would come so near to a horde of orcs, let alone attack them merely to rescue one elven prisoner."

Gareth was quiet for a moment, and Thranduil found it frustrating that he could no longer read the human's body language without his sight. "To be truthful, we were just passing through," he replied finally. "My people are fleeing these very same orcs."

The last part made sense; the orcs of Dol Guldur had been terrorizing the villages of the Edain for months, so it was no surprise that the humans wanted to leave. But Thranduil knew there had to be more to the story. "So you decided to attack them?" he inquired, somewhat doubtful.

A pause. "They had abducted several of our women and children," Gareth explained, his voice growing more somber now. "We sought to get them back, but… it seems we were too late." The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

"I am sorry," Thranduil said sincerely. Such a senseless loss of life was tragic, and he had known enough of it from the loss of his own people to last a hundred lifetimes. "May their souls be at peace."

"That is all we can hope for them now," Gareth said with a heavy sigh. "But I would leave no one to such a fate if I could help it. Whatever it is they wanted with you, they won't have it now." He paused for a moment. "What are you called, elf?"

Thranduil hesitated. Perhaps it would be for the best if he kept his true identity to himself for now. If word got out that the Elvenking was missing from Mirkwood, especially while Legolas was away as well, it could spell disaster. "My name is Malathion," he said after only a heartbeat's pause. It had been the name of the captain of Oropher's guard, whom Thranduil had known when he was very young. Said elf had long since sailed west, but any man would not know the difference. "My patrol was attacked by orcs, and I was taken captive." At least, it was partially true.

"I see." Gareth seemed to accept this without further questioning, and judging from the sounds of many more voices up ahead, they were approaching the human encampment. "I have duties to attend to with the rest of my people, but I'll leave you with Rhiannon and her daughters. They'll look after you."

The horse soon came to a halt, and Gareth dismounted to the left, waiting for Thranduil to do the same. Centuries of experience with such things allowed Thranduil to slide off the horse with relative confidence even without sight, though he hoped Gareth wouldn't pick up on his slight hesitation.

However, Gareth must have noticed that something was off. "Well, I'll confess to never having met an elf before, but I didn't think I'd ever meet a blind one," he remarked. "What they say about Mirkwood soldiers must be true: even a blind elf can shoot better than a man."

Thranduil couldn't help but be faintly amused by that. Was that what the humans thought of them? Well, it was partially true; any elf could shoot better than a man. He wasn't entirely sure of his abilities with a bow in his current state, though. "You would be surprised by what our warriors are capable of," he responded. He still had his kingdom's reputation to uphold, of course.

Small, quick footsteps could be heard off to the side, and with a laugh a young girl leaped into Gareth's arms. "Uncle Gareth's back!" she exclaimed, clearly excited. "Ma, Ruatha, Uncle Gareth's back!" She couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old, still very young even by human standards.

Gareth laughed and held the girl close, nuzzling the top of her head with his nose. "Yes, Lyssa, I told you I'd be back, didn't I?" he said with a fond smile. "You kept your mother and your sister safe while I was away, I trust?"

Two other women emerged from the hastily erected tent nearby, and the older one spoke first. "Gareth," she said with a sigh of relief. "I'm glad to see you're alright." Though her voice was warm, she sounded tired, a soul-deep kind of tired.

"You needn't have worried, Rhiannon," Gareth told her gently, setting down the younger girl, who immediately returned to clutch at her mother's skirts. "We were careful."

All of a sudden Thranduil felt several pairs of eyes on him, and he fought the urge to shift his weight uncomfortably. It was odd to sense their stares on him and not be able to stare back.

"Who's that?" It was the girl's voice, the young one, her tone innocent and curious, but the weight of her mother and sister's gaze made the words heavy.

"This is Malathion," Gareth said, placing a hand on the elf's shoulder. "A wood elf. We rescued him from the orcs when we were looking for Myna and her daughters. I'll tell you about it later, but for now I need you to look after him."

Thranduil felt Rhiannon's gaze rake him up and down, and he could sense tension from her. "Gareth, why did you bring him here?" There was a lingering accusation in her tone, and he wondered whether it was prejudice or worry for her family.

"Because I could not abandon him to the same fate as Myna and her daughters," Gareth replied sharply, and there was a heavy, somber silence for a few moments as the implication settled over the group. It was known that orcs only took prisoners by orders or for sport, and those in the latter group never lasted long.

Thranduil had not been able to get a word in edgewise, but right now he thought it best that he should keep silent. This was clearly a matter that went beyond his mere presence in the camp, and it needed to be settled between them. As much as he wanted to make haste in getting back home, that was going to be a complicated endeavor, so for now he was simply along for the ride with these humans.

Finally, it was Gareth who broke the tense silence. "I will return soon, but I have duties I must attend to," he sighed. "…Myna would have wanted us to save as many lives as we can."

"I'll take care of him, Ma," came the older girl's voice, softly. "You rest. Lyssa can help me with supper."

Rhiannon let out a sigh that seemed to drain all the resistance from her. "Very well then."

Thranduil inclined his head respectfully towards her. "I am in your debt, my lady." He inwardly winced at how ragged his voice sounded, even to himself. And he was sure he must look a sight as well, bedraggled and dirty from his captivity with the orcs, so he understood why the woman would be reluctant to let some dirty vagabond into her house. Or tent, as it were.

"Well, at least he's polite," murmured Rhiannon to her daughter, who responded with something Thranduil couldn't quite catch.

Thranduil suddenly felt chilled, like a cold breeze had just blown through, despite nothing of the sort happening. He was tired, so very tired… It was as if all the pain and exhaustion of the last few days had caught up with him all at once, and it hit him like a physical force. He felt dizzy of a sudden, and the disorientation of being unable to see wasn't helping his balance. He heard concerned voices around him, but they seemed distant and muffled, almost like he was underwater. The last thing he remembered was the sensation of falling, collapsing in a boneless heap on the ground with only the faint sound of his own breathing in his ears.

~oOo~

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_Vaguely, Thranduil knew he was dreaming. But the thought seemed so insignificant, merely a passing wonder in the back of his mind, like the flurries of snow drifting through the air around him. It felt familiar here, he thought as he took a deep breath and exhaled, his breath billowing in front of his face in a silver cloud._

_This form was familiar. Four strong legs beneath him, supported by wide cloven hooves. A broad chest with deep lungs. A rack of proud, many pronged-antlers spread out from atop his head, reflected white like his fur in the ice under his hooves. He was an elk, tall and proud, and he felt a deep sense of being home under the snow-covered trees. It was winter, with much of the forest dusted in a covering of snow, and the usual sounds of birds and insects flitting about were absent._

_Even the spiders were sluggish in the cold, curled up in their webs high in the canopy, so it was quiet but for the rustling of snow-covered branches and the whistle of the wind. Thranduil's hooves made muted clacking sounds against the ice of the frozen pond as he walked over it, following the scent of warm fur and musk. His hooves soon met fresh snow, silencing his steps as he wandered towards the edge of the trees. There were other elk around, does with wide black eyes and ears pricked, but they made no move toward him. They did not speak, only bowed their heads and went back to grazing at the snowy branches of a bush._

_The sound of a wolf's howl pierced the quiet cold, and Thranduil stopped short. His ears lifted and faced forward, listening intently. The howl echoed off the mountains, a lonely, plaintive sound that did not inspire fear but sadness. Thranduil watched the group of does tense up, abandoning their grazing to trot in the other direction, deeper into the trees, but he was not afraid. Rather, he felt drawn to the sound, as if it were something familiar._

_He trotted out past the tree line, where a swath of snowy land lay between him and the craggy peaks of the Emyn Muil. Looking up at the peaks, they were silhouetted darkly against the gray sky, half-hidden behind heavy snow clouds and the gusting flurries. It felt important to see this, somehow._

_There was a break in the clouds which allowed Thranduil to see the lower peaks clearly, and there he saw the outline of a wolf standing on one of the lower cliffs, looking out across the expanse of snow._

_It was a white wolf, his fur just a shade darker than the snow that swirled in the air around them, and he stood very still upon the cliff, as if he was looking for something. Then the wolf tipped his head back and let out a low, mournful howl, a sound that sent chills up Thranduil's spine._

_But he was not afraid. Instead, he felt a new sense of familiar urgency, and hearing the wolf's howl was like being reminded of something he couldn't quite grasp in his memory. Unsettled, he stamped his forehooves, snorting and shaking his head. There was something important here, he knew, something he couldn't forget and yet still couldn't remember._

_He stared up at the wolf, who was already turning away from the cliff face, feeling a pang of an emotion he couldn't name in this instinctually-driven form. He couldn't speak, but he felt as though he had to answer the wolf's cry. He let out a long, low bellow that quickly rose to a whistling shriek, the unmistakable cry of a bull elk, the sound carried forth and lost in the cold wind._

_The wolf didn't stop, his lithe body disappearing into the distant grey as he bounded away down the other side of the cliff. He was gone as quickly as he had come, like a wraith disappearing into the mist._

_Suddenly darkness enclosed Thranduil again, reaching around his consciousness with shadowy tendrils that seemed to drag him away from the wintry landscape. He slipped from the elk's form, feeling overwhelmed by claustrophobia of a sudden, the vision of a snow-covered land bleeding away like spilled ink, only to give way to a canvas of murky reds and blacks, firelight flickering against damp black stone._

_Terror surged through Thranduil's heart as he recognized the dark stone of Dol Guldur, and he tried frantically to banish the memory, but it wouldn't leave. The nightmare seemed to feed off his fear, growing sharper, more real with every second. It had its claws sunk deep in him again, and the grip of the orcs' hands felt painfully, terrifyingly real. The more he fought it, the more intense it became, but fear made him desperate, intensely vulnerable in ways he had not known in millennia._

" _Hold him still," Dagok's voice growled, his huge form silhouetted in the flickering orange light of a nearby torch, and the three orcs surrounding Thranduil pinned him tighter to the floor._

_He thrashed in their grip, his heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, but he was too weak from his earlier wounds to overpower them. He was trapped, and the gleam in Dagok's beady black eyes was sadistically gleeful._

" _You will learn your place, elf," the tall orc rumbled as he knelt next to Thranduil, holding a tiny phial of glistening black liquid, more viscous than water but too thin to be ink. The monstrous orc was grinning, his lips split entirely too wide as one of his massive hands gripped Thranduil's hair to hold him still._

" _I will take from you everything you hold dear," Dagok hissed, eyes gleaming. "This is only the beginning."_

_The phial tilted in Dagok's surprisingly nimble hands, spilling black poison into Thranduil's eyes with deliberate cruelty. The pain was searing, even in the dream, and the last thing he remembered was hearing a scream he only dimly recognized as his own, his sight fading into choking darkness, a void where light could never touch._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, I know, but I'm back! Even though it's not Monday, I wanted to post something to let y'all know I'm alive. This chapter has been a long time coming, lol. (5k words!). I hope you enjoyed. It was really great to get back into writing again, and I've got another chapter hopefully lined up for next week! Unfortunately, I can't promise weekly updates anymore, but I'll do my best. Maybe every two weeks? A lot goes into these chapters, lol. Thanks again for reading!


	15. Dark Places

_~14~_

_Dark Places_

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If there was one thing Thranduil had learned about humans, it was that they were _filthy._ Everything smelled overwhelmingly of goat and horse and unwashed bodies, and while the first two were excusable due to the presence of such animals in large numbers, the last was bordering on offensive. Thranduil wasn't familiar enough with Men to know if this was normal or not, but the idea of not bathing for weeks on end he found abhorrent. Men also tended to smoke heavily and often, puffing on tobacco pipes as they talked or sat around a fire, and the smell of smoke clung to their clothes. It was considered an unclean habit among elves, but Thranduil doubted that any of them cared to know that. He had enough diplomatic sense not to say anything about it, either; it would be like criticizing a dwarf about his beard.

Most of the men seemed to have no problem with Thranduil's presence among them, surprisingly. Many of them stared when they caught a glimpse of his long blond hair and pointed ears, and he could feel their eyes on him at times, but their stares were not malicious. They were merely curious, for an elf in the company of men was a rare thing indeed.

The autumn sky was gray and overcast, and a chill wind blew from the north, though the rain seemed to have exhausted itself for the moment. They were following the river as it snaked southward, relying on Gareth's navigational skills to keep them on track towards their destination. It was a cold trek but a relatively uneventful one so far, and in the days they had been traveling they had not seen another living soul aside from rabbits and the occasional fish pulled from the river. It was almost eerie how empty the vast plains seemed, quiet but for the sound of the rushing Anduin at their side, though no one dared to acknowledge it for fear of putting a jinx on the whole village.

There was very little to do but talk, and seeing as Thranduil couldn't simply enjoy the scenery, he found himself doing just that with Ruatha or Gareth, whomever happened to be around. Gareth often had to ride ahead to lead the people onward, so he wasn't around much, and that left Thranduil in the company of Rhiannon and her daughters. Rhiannon generally seemed to want nothing to do with him, and Lyssa, being seven years old, often stuck close to her mother's side.

This left Thranduil and Ruatha to ride on the two pack horses plodding behind the wagon, sparing the draft horses the extra weight. It was rather nice when the wind wasn't blowing and chilling them all to the bone, actually. At first he had been reluctant to talk much, but it helped to take his mind off of other things, and riding in silence was really quite boring.

"So then part of the world just… sank into the sea?" Ruatha asked with wide eyes. Thranduil had been telling her stories from Elvish history to pass the time, and she was fascinated by them. She hadn't had much in the way of an education, being only a fisherman's daughter, so this was all quite new to her.

"The battle was so great that it changed the face of Arda itself," Thranduil affirmed. He had read about it many times as a child, and he knew the story well. "It was in this battle that Morgoth was finally banished from Middle Earth, though it resulted in the destruction of much of the western part of the continent. Much was lost—the great city of Gondolin, Doriath, the Havens of Sirion… It was all destroyed."

"That's terrible," Ruatha said, blinking as she tried to take it all in. "And so many must have died… Were you there?"

"No," replied Thranduil, shaking his head. "This all happened long before even I was born. But I knew some of those who witnessed it, and such a war leaves scars that cannot always be seen. My father was from Doriath."

"Where did he go after the city was destroyed?" Ruatha asked. Trying to imagine the extent of such destruction was mind-boggling to her, and even the lifespans of elves were still difficult for a mortal such as herself to understand. History took on a different meaning when it was one's family and friends who had fought in such wars rather than one's ancestors from generations ago.

"He and many of our people chose to move east instead of sailing to the Undying Lands," Thranduil replied, thinking of the stories his father had told him as a child. "To the forests of Greenwood the Great, as it was called then. The Sindarin elves built a great fortress in the south of the woods, and for a long time it was a wonderful, thriving place."

Ruatha glanced at him, recognizing the wistful tone in his voice. "And now?"

Thranduil was silent for a few moments. "Now it is only a dark ruin."

Ruatha pursed her lips, thinking. "I don't understand," she said finally. "The tales say that Sauron was vanquished thousands of years ago when his Ring was lost. How does darkness still taint this land? The south, the east, and even the forest…" She was frightened, like many people were, and one could hardly fault her for seeking answers. Her people's survival may yet hang in the balance.

"We do not know," Thranduil admitted after a pause. It was the truth. Long had the wood elves felt the stirrings of darkness in the forest, the slow growth of evil like a creeping black mold, but they had turned a blind eye and retreated deeper into the woods, perhaps hoping that it could not reach them there.

Ruatha sighed, and worry returned to gnaw at her mind. She wished it would leave her alone, but with so many uncertainties ahead of them, it was impossible to ignore. She glanced at Thranduil. "Will you tell me the story of the Last Alliance?"

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, glancing in her general direction with sightless but expressive eyes. "I thought that all the children of Men knew that story."

"We do," she admitted, looking briefly into his eyes. "But I've never heard the story told by an elf before." She paused a moment. "Were you there, at the Last Alliance?"

There was another beat of silence, and Thranduil's cloudy eyes were solemn. "Yes. I was."

Ruatha was surprised for a moment, but then remembered she probably shouldn't be. Elves lived for... well, generally forever, and while she didn't know how old her friend was, she guessed it was very. "Was it as the tales say?"

Thranduil shook his head briefly. "It was far worse." The memories of that battle still sent an uncomfortable prickling sensation up his spine, the images still searingly fresh in his mind even after two and a half thousand years. Blood, so much blood… Mixed with ash and steel and sulfur, the smell of suffocating heat and acidic soil, facing off against thousands upon thousands of bloodthirsty orcs. "We were outnumbered, facing down the Black Gates of Mordor, the plains of Gorgoroth filled with an army screaming for our blood."

"But the Alliance won," Ruatha said insistently, frowning. "Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, and he was vanquished." That was how the story had been told in her village, a tale of triumph and victory.

"Yes, the battle was won," Thranduil said with a sort of forlorn distance in his voice. "But the path to victory was a terrible one. Men and Elves both died by the thousands, and our King was slain in the first assault." It was a day that none who had seen it could ever forget. For an elf especially, such grief was not an easy thing to bear.

"I'm sorry," Ruatha said sincerely. She could hear in his voice that the grief was still near for him, even if the battle was only a legendary tale for her. "But it was a noble thing your people did. The war could not have been won without all the combined might of Men and Elves."

"You are right. It was for the good of all our realms." Thranduil decided not to tell her about how many thousands of Men and Elves died screaming, bodies piled so high that the survivors had to wade through them to leave the battlefield. So many corpses that the dead could not be counted, let alone buried, and they had to be burned in mass graves with the orc dead. Or how two thirds of the woodland elves' army was slaughtered in the first assault, a premature charge by King Oropher proving fatal both to him and thousands of his soldiers. He didn't tell her about how the King's son watched him die with an Orcish arrow through his throat, the young Prince crowned in blood on the battlefield…

"Malathion? Are you alright?" Ruatha's voice broke through the haze of dark memories, and Thranduil blinked, shaking his head to clear it.

"I'm quite alright," he assured her. "Just… reminiscing." He fell silent for a few moments, listening intently to the whistling wind, which sounded like it was blowing through something very tall…

"Where are we?" he asked Ruatha, who was staring off into the distance.

"It looks like we're approaching the Emyn Muil," she said with a note of apprehension in her voice. "Can't be more than a day's ride from here."

"Gareth is planning to take this whole company through those rocks?" Thranduil asked, a note of disbelief entering his voice. There was no hope of getting an entire village and their belongings through a pass like the Emyn Muil. It was a mazelike, treacherous path to take even on foot with a small group, let alone with three hundred people carrying everything they owned.

"Why? Is it dangerous?" Ruatha asked, suddenly concerned. She had never been more than a few miles beyond the border of her village, and the rest of Middle Earth was all but unknown to her.

"More than you know," Thranduil said gravely. "I need to speak with Gareth." He would have to dissuade the man from taking the path through the Emyn Muil. If he could not, then very few would make it to the other side.

The two of them rode up to the front of the caravan, where Gareth sat astride his own horse, his attention fixed on the horizon. He seemed to be deep in thought, and he only noticed their presence when the two rode up right beside him.

"Uncle Gareth!" Ruatha said loudly to get the man's attention. "Malathion has something to tell you."

"And what would that be?" asked Gareth, looking from Ruatha to Thranduil.

"You cannot possibly be thinking of taking these people through the Emyn Muil," Thranduil began, feeling slightly out of his depth. Without being able to gauge the human's body language visually, it was hard to know whether he was getting through to the man or not.

"We have no other choice," Gareth with an air of grim resignation about him. "We must try."

"There is another way," Thranduil insisted, and he could feel Gareth's eyes on him now. "Go around the mountains. Take the path through the marshes."

"You would have us pass so close to that fell place?" said the man, his gaze stormy and his voice lowered. "There is no path that would take us safely through."

"It will be less treacherous than the one you intend to take now," Thranduil countered. "If you go into the Emyn Muil, you will not find your way out. The marsh path is the only way." He did not like the idea any more than Gareth did, for the marshes that now covered the plains of Dagorlad and beyond were a dark place, uncomfortably near to Mordor, but he liked even less the thought of becoming stranded in a maze of razor-sharp peaks and deadly cliffs.

Gareth seemed to consider this, and at last he let out a resigned sigh. "Very well. I trust your counsel more than I trust this map," he said with a forlorn glance at the worn parchment curled in his hand. It had to be very old, and the markings on it were all but faded away in some spots. Maps of Middle Earth in its entirety were very hard to come by, and he was beginning to think this one was more speculation than anything else. "I am uneasy to leave the river, but it seems we have no choice."

"How far do the marshlands stretch?" Ruatha asked after a moment, staring out at the land beyond the mountains.

"A hundred miles, perhaps a bit more," Thranduil replied grimly, remembering the long march his father's army, combined with those of Elendil and Erienion Gil-galad, had taken through those very lands in another age.

"It will be a long road," Gareth agreed, his expression stony as he gazed out at the broad expanse of land, the looming shadow of Mordor a dark stain in the sky to the southeast. "We make camp here for the night. We will need all our strength in that fell place."

~oOo~

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The night was chilly and quiet, with only the sounds of murmuring voices and the soft crackling of the fire floating in the background as the village camped in the shadow of the mountains. Thranduil had no idea what time it was, but the chilliness of the air and the subdued, tired voices of the people nearby told him that it was very late, probably very dark so far out in the wilderlands. The stars would be out by now, he thought, and it made him feel somehow lonely, being unable to see their silvery light.

Most everyone else had gone to sleep except for the few guards posted at the edge of camp. Thranduil listened to the quiet, rhythmic breathing of Gareth and his family, each of them curled up in a blanket, as close to the fire as they dared to try and keep warm. He could hear the horses shifting their weight not far away, whickering softly to each other as they stood close together for warmth. But the Elvenking could find no rest. His mind would not quiet, and now that he was alone with his thoughts, they were impossible to ignore.

His whole body ached, and the wounds on his back throbbed with a dull ache even when he stayed perfectly still. The pain sapped what little strength he had left after such a long day, but even such bone-deep exhaustion would not let him sleep. He lay gingerly on his side underneath a blanket, sightless eyes staring blankly into nothing while he let his thoughts run their course. Mirkwood was always on his mind, a worry he could not let go of. Now that he knew Dagok was marching to Gundabad, most likely to consolidate his forces, he feared for what that might mean for the woodland realm. If only he could have told Legolas…

Yet another thought that never left his mind for long. The Prince had escaped Dol Guldur, yes, but where was he now? Thranduil very much hoped he had gotten home safely and alerted all the elves of the kingdom of the growing threat, so that they might at least be prepared if something terrible were to befall them. The people would need Legolas' leadership, as well. Without their King, that responsibility would fall to the Prince, even if Legolas did not want it.

The sound of shuffling footsteps made Thranduil tense suddenly, nervous, but he relaxed when he realized it was only the changing of the sentry shift at the edge of camp. He sighed softly. Everything seemed louder, sharper, with the loss of his sight. While elves generally had almost supernaturally keen hearing, his ears seemed to be even more sensitive than before, as if to compensate for the loss of his sight. He could recognize people by their footsteps, their breathing patterns, and even tell whose horse was whose by the way they walked or whinnied. Yet still… the loss of his sight was a devastating blow, one he still didn't know how to handle.

The sense of vulnerability that came with being blind was almost too much, and it frustrated the proud elf to have to rely on others (particularly humans) to watch his back now that he couldn't do it himself. While he had a sword, he was forced to admit that he wasn't sure he could hold his own in a fight anymore. Perhaps against one foe, but if there was an orc attack? Many enemies would be overwhelming without being able to target them visually, and the thought of having to sit back with the women and children during a battle stung Thranduil's pride terribly.

It made an uncomfortable shame prickle somewhere in his heart, a sense of creeping inadequacy he hadn't experienced since he was very young, still wondering how he would ever fill his father's shoes, but he refused to be consumed by self-doubt. Thranduil was many things, but he didn't like to think _useless_ was one of them. He would simply have to learn to adapt.

He heard something moving nearby and immediately sat up in the dark, ignoring the pain that shot from his back to his ribs at the sudden movement. A second later he realized it was only Ruatha, feeling somewhat embarrassed at his own skittishness.

"Sorry if I startled you." The girl's voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it seemed loud against the quiet coolness of the night. "I can't sleep."

"You should try," he told her quietly, listening to the distant sound of wind whistling in the mountains. "The marshes are not an easy path to traverse."

"I believe you," Ruatha said quietly, a wry smile playing at her lips. "I just… can't stop thinking."

"About what?" There could be worse ways to waste time in the middle of the night than making conversation with mortals. Thranduil decided to humor the girl.

"Home." Her voice was soft, filled with a blend of longing and grief, and Thranduil couldn't help but feel a bit sympathetic towards her. She was so young, and to be torn away from her home and everything she'd ever known… Well, he knew how hard that could be.

"I know the forest isn't safe for us anymore, but I miss it," Ruatha continued after a long silence, staring at the dying embers of the fire. There was another long pause. "I don't think Lyssa understands we're not coming back. And Ma… she's sick. She's been sick for a long time, but… I think it's getting worse now." She sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. "…I don't know what to do." She wasn't sure why she was telling the elf all this, but her worries needed an outlet, and he seemed to be listening.

"There isn't much you can do," Thranduil told her after a moment, not unkindly. "Just… trust in your people. Trust that Gareth knows where he's going." He smiled wryly. "That's all any of us can do right now."

"I suppose," Ruatha said with a faint smile. She looked up at the inky blue-black sky dotted with the silver points of stars, her face going solemn. "…are you afraid, Malathion?"

Thranduil was silent for a long moment. "Yes," he answered finally, truthfully. "I am afraid for my people. For my home. For my son." That was only the beginning, only scratching the surface of the emotional turmoil in his heart, but he didn't think he could put all of that into words even if he tried. And he didn't want to try. He rather hoped that it would all just go away, and perhaps this would just be another nightmare to wake up from… If only.

"I'm afraid, too," she whispered. After a moment she glanced at the elf, watching the way the firelight made his hair shimmer like spun gold. "You know, when I lost my sight, it was Gareth who saved me, too."

Vague surprise flickered across Thranduil's features, though his expression was hardly visible in the dimness. It wasn't something he'd expected to hear. "How did it happen, if I may ask?"

"It happened when I was young, just before my sister was born," Ruatha said softly, her voice distant with the memory, and she unconsciously hugged her legs closer to her chest. "I was out in the forest picking berries back home, not really watching where I should have been. I didn't see the bear until it charged at me." She fell silent for a long moment, closing her eyes. "If Gareth hadn't been just outside the house, I would have died. He fought it off, then took me in and stitched me back together."

They had that in common, it seemed. If it had not been for Gareth, Thranduil was almost certain he would be dead by now. _Or worse_ , said a little voice in the back of his mind, thinking of the unnervingly sadistic gleam in Dagok's eye. There were worse fates than death. Far worse.

"I'd describe what it did to me, but it might be easier if you 'see' for yourself," she continued quietly.

Thranduil was briefly confused, but he merely listened intently as the girl crawled closer to sit directly in front of him. She gently took his hands and placed them upon her face, and he instinctively understood. He slowly mapped the contours of her face with his fingertips, from her smooth forehead to her gently sloped nose to her angular chin. But while the left side of her face was smooth skin, he immediately realized what she had meant when his fingertips glided down the right side of her face.

Three deep, jagged scars ran parallel from her temple all the way to her jaw from what must have been bone-deep wounds at one time. One of the scars led over her right eye, mangling the eyelid and the flesh of her cheek, and it was clear she had no sight on that side. The lines continued all the way down past her lips, the scar pulling one corner of her mouth downwards in a permanent grimace, marring one whole side of her face.

It had once been a horrifying wound, he was sure, and Thranduil had a new respect for Gareth's skills as a healer if he had saved the girl's life from a wound like this. He gently brushed a few wisps of hair out of her face before dropping his hands to his lap, already forming a picture of what she might look like in his mind. "Gareth is indeed skilled to have saved you from such a wound," he said finally. Now the elf knew why she had been so talkative with him; he was probably the only one outside of her family who didn't look at her like she was something grotesque.

"It's a miracle I can still see at all," Ruatha said with a small smile. "He made sure the infection didn't take my other eye as well. And I knew he would save you, too. Ma said she thought you would die, but Gareth knows a lot about healing from the rangers."

Thranduil was silent for a long moment. The mention of rangers made him curious about Gareth's past with them. Perhaps he would have to ask the man about it when he got the chance, for it seemed odd that one of the Dunedain would simply leave to settle in a remote village of the Edain.

The last embers of the fire had finally died away, and a chilly wind made Ruatha shiver as it blew through. "I suppose we should sleep now," she said quietly as she glanced up at the sky, which was just barely beginning to lighten in color. "We have a long way ahead of us."

If there was one thing that was for certain, it was that.

~oOo~

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The decision to take the path through the marshes had not been popular with the villagers at first, but they soon understood that there would be no way to pass through the looming Emyn Muil, at least not without getting hopelessly lost or cut to ribbons on sharp rocks. But that did not mean that the marsh path was an easy one by any means—it was treacherous and unsteady, the watery ground making for a deceptive path to tread.

The marshes were filled with shallow ponds and bumps and mudholes, the stink of swamp gases rising from the water every time the muck was disturbed. They were only a day's travel into the marshlands, and it would take at least five to traverse the length of the Emyn Muil, which they kept to their right to keep them on track. Much of it was too treacherous to ride horses through, so the mounts had to be led, and this left Thranduil, Ruatha, and Lyssa to sit in the back of Rhiannon's wagon, on top of grain sacks and trunks with a tarp stretched overhead to keep the rain off. It was simply easier if they were safely out of the way, Gareth had told them. It stung Thranduil's pride to acquiesce to such a remark, but he had to admit he didn't fancy the idea of falling into the swamp water without sight to guide him. The stench of the bog would be hard enough to get out of their clothes already.

But the further they traveled into the marsh, the more tense Thranduil became. He would be spared the sight of the ghoulish things that awaited them this time, but he knew they were coming. It would be inevitable. He remained mostly silent as the day wore on, listening to the squelching steps of the horses' hooves and the eerie silence that seemed to pervade the marsh. The tight feeling in his chest and the tense, sick feeling that was slowly getting worse meant only one thing: they were approaching the plains of Dagorlad now, and all the old ghosts that came with that fell place.

He could still hear them if he listened closely, the clashing of swords and the screams of the dying in a battle long past. So much blood had been spilt here, of Orc and Elf and Man, and the land had never forgotten. Never. Thranduil tried to shut it out, hoping to ignore the heaviness of the very air around them, the darkness that clung to this place like a damp cloak.

Ruatha suddenly gasped quietly, horrified, and she clapped a hand over her mouth at the sight she could see even from the wagon. "There! There are dead things… in the water…!" she breathed in horror, and Lyssa let out a whimper of fear as she clutched tighter at her sister. "What are they…?"

"The remains of the Last Alliance," Thranduil told them in a solemn voice, keeping his tone hushed as though the dead might hear him. "A great battle was fought here, long ago. We had not the time nor the strength to bury them all, and here they remain."

The sounds of fearful agitation slowly rose in pitch from the other villagers, horrified murmurs and moans and whispered prayers, but there was nothing they could do except push on. The dead could not hurt them, or so they hoped.

The Dead Marshes seemed to stretch for miles, eerie faces of the dead floating beneath the water like ghastly reflections in a mirror. The people kept as far from the water as they could, whispering fearfully amongst themselves. Even the animals seemed nervous, the horses balking at the slightest provocation, ears pinned back in terror. The air was filled with the plaintive bleating of goats and nervous stomping of hooves, amid the voices of the people who sounded just as fearful. The noise felt unnatural under the blanket of heavy silence that seemed to stretch over the marsh, but there seemed to be no one around to hear them.

The caravan stayed as close to the edge of the Emyn Muil as they could, trying to walk where the ground was drier and more stable underfoot, and away from the eerie dead things floating just beneath the surface of the marsh. The presence of the mountains felt looming and oppressive, but perhaps that was just the air of the marsh itself, all of them silently hoping that once their path led into the Nindalf and away from this fell place that this heavy shadow would lift itself from their shoulders. Occasionally the sound of crumbling rocks echoed from higher up in the craggy peaks, but no one could spy any movement. There didn't seem to be another living soul in these lands—at least none that would reveal themselves.

Listening past the sounds of hooves and footsteps and hushed voices, it was quiet, almost too much so. It was disconcerting to Thranduil, who had the sneaking sensation that they were being watched. It was almost as if the peaks themselves had eyes, a silent and heavy stare that made all those beneath it uneasy. So far they had not encountered any problems beyond wagon wheels getting stuck in the mud, but that did not mean there wasn't something sinister lurking ahead.

Thranduil could not shake the feeling that they were not alone, even in the eerie silence of the marshes, and the faint, distant sound of shifting rocks in the cliffs above made him tense. His only regret was not speaking up sooner, for when the shrieking cackle of a goblin split the air, it was already too late.

The group of orcs and goblins descended on the caravan in a surprise attack, pouring out of the jagged peaks and blindsiding the terrified villagers. Lyssa screamed and buried her face in Ruatha's chest, terrified, while Ruatha could only stare in horror, her one eye wide with fear as she listened to the screams of her kinsfolk and the clashing of steel.

The horses were terrified and would not move no matter how Rhiannon jerked the reins; there were too many orcs in their path, and the swarm would not let them get away so easily. Feeling his blood surge with battle-ready adrenaline, Thranduil's hand went to his sword, gripping the familiar hilt.

"You two stay here," he told the two girls quickly. "Stay out of sight, and I'll be back." He was hardly going to sit and wait whilst the other villagers were fighting off the orcs; he had a sinking feeling that they needed all the help they could get.

"Wait! Don't go," Ruatha pleaded, a tremor in her voice. "You should stay with us. We should stay together." She was just as scared for him as she was for her own life, and those of her sister and her mother. Gareth would have wanted them to stay put, she was sure.

"Don't argue, just stay hidden," Rhiannon ordered them, her voice and her eyes stern as she climbed down to sit near them, a dagger clutched in her small hand. She would not be leaving her daughters, but she would fight if she had to.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." Thranduil tried to sound reassuring, but there was no time to waste on words as he jumped down from the back of the wagon, drawing his sword as soon as his feet hit the ground. The familiar weight of the blade in his hand was enough to hold his trepidation at bay, even as his skin prickled at hearing the war shrieks of orcs and goblins.

They seemed to be coming from every direction, and Thranduil willed himself to focus on the sounds of their rapid footsteps and the clanging of blades against armor, trying to tell each individual apart. They were attacking anything in sight, and a garbled shriek from directly ahead was the only warning the elf had before he was locked into combat with a large, angry goblin.

The goblin was more frenzied than focused, but Thranduil still found it worryingly difficult to parry the blows from its curved sword and found himself dodging and stepping back more often than not. He felt off-balance without his second blade, and the goblin was taking advantage of it. Thranduil followed the sound of singing steel through the air and brought his blade up to block, the rasp of steel on steel raking the air as he finally pushed the creature back, and with an instinctual thrust borne of centuries of swordplay, he skewered the goblin through the neck. It choked and gurgled for a moment before going limp, and Thranduil felt his blade slide through ruined flesh and sinew with a wet jerk as he pulled it free of the body.

A deep snarl from an orc caught Thranduil's attention half a second too late as the swipe of a sword suddenly knocked the blade from his hand, the power behind the blow astonishing. Now weaponless, Thranduil felt panic rising up in his chest, his heart pounding as he sensed the terrible bloodlust from the orc. He instinctively ducked another heavy swipe of the orc's blade, hearing the creature snarl in frustration. The orc was big and slow, but Thranduil had no way of killing it without his sword, which he supposed was under a few inches of water several feet away.

"You…" the orc growled in a guttural voice, noticing Thranduil's cloudy eyes. "You're the one marked by the master. Filthy tree rat!"

Before he had a chance to react, a heavy forearm struck the elf between his shoulder blades, a blow strong enough to knock the wind out of him and send him crumpling to the ground. Overwhelmed with the pulses of agony radiating from the center of his back, Thranduil lay stunned for several moments, trying to get his breath back as every instinct he possessed was telling him to get up and run or fight or do _something._ The orc suddenly kicked him hard in the ribs, and all Thranduil could do was grunt and clutch at his stomach, curling up to try to protect his midsection. It was worse when the orc kicked him in the back, though, and he had to bite back the urge to scream as agony ripped through the half-healed wounds like lightning.

The orc let out a guttural chuckle of enjoyment, the sound like a warg's growl amid the sounds of clashing steel and screaming villagers echoing chaotically around them. "Perhaps when I return you to Dagok, he'll allow me to assist in breaking you…"

Thranduil couldn't help the thrill of panic that clutched at his chest upon hearing those words; he wouldn't go back to that monster! Whatever his fate might be, out in the wild in the company of Men, it would be a thousand times better than being Dagok's prisoner again.

He didn't have time to think, only to act. _You'd have to kill me first, you miserable creature._ He kicked the orc in its knee with enough force that he heard the sickening crack and crunch of bone, and the beast howled in agony as it crumpled to the ground. The orc spat a guttural curse and tried to pin Thranduil down, grasping for a weapon, but the elf's ferocious struggling was enough to throw the orc off. Straddling the orc's chest, Thranduil was able to use his weight to keep the snarling creature still, his knees pinning its shoulders to the muddy ground.

Thranduil's hands were shaking with adrenaline, and he had to focus every ounce of his strength into keeping the monster pinned beneath him whilst he fumbled for a knife pulled from the orc's belt. It was difficult since everything was slick with blood and mud and cold water, but finally Thranduil tugged the knife free and plunged the blade into the orc's throat, feeling a gush of hot blood wash over his hands as the orc let out a weak death gurgle, finally going still beneath him.

Panting, Thranduil stood up and stumbled away from the orc's body, though he soon found that his legs didn't want to support his weight just yet, and he fell to his knees in the mud. His hands were shaking, and he felt almost dizzy from the aftermath of the fight, his heart still racing. Dimly he realized that the screams of the villagers had faded into concerned cries for wounded loved ones, the clashing of steel absent from the air now that the battle was over. There were no orc or goblin screams to be heard, so one could safely say they were all dead, by some stroke of luck.

It had only been a minor skirmish, in truth, an attack by perhaps twenty orcs and goblins hoping to terrorize the unsuspecting men, but it felt like so much more. It wasn't quite the plains of Dagorlad all over again, but Thranduil hadn't been so desperate in a fight for a very long time, and it frightened him.

He sank his hands into the cold water of the swamp, letting the orc's blood wash away and vaguely wishing the cold would numb his mind as well. Feeling nothing at all would have been preferable to the haze of fear and uncertainty and pain clouding his mind. Thranduil struggled to quiet his racing thoughts, his heart still beating in a rapid, rabbity pulse that thrummed too much like panic.

His hand suddenly brushed something familiar in the water, and his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, pulling the drenched blade from the shallow puddle. Absently, his thumb traced the curling pattern that decorated the hilt, trying to ground himself in the familiarity of the grooves. Finally he sheathed the sword at his hip, listening numbly to the voices and nameless cries of the humans as they regrouped after the attack.

A hand on his shoulder startled Thranduil, and he sucked in a sharp gasp of surprise, still very much shaken from the battle.

"Don't worry, it's only me," came Gareth's voice, gentle and calm despite the situation. He knelt next to the elf, noting how Thranduil was shivering visibly. "Are you alright?"

For a moment Thranduil couldn't find the words to reply. He felt entirely out of his depth, intensely vulnerable in ways he couldn't describe. His wounds were a dull throb in the back of his mind, too shell-shocked to really acknowledge the pain. "I… I'm fine," he said finally, his voice a hoarse whisper that betrayed how fragile he felt.

Gareth grimaced. _I'm not sure I believe that_. He could see blood soaking through the fabric of the elf's shirt, and that wasn't a good sign, combined with how ghostly pale he looked. The battle had left many injured, though the other healers had assured Gareth that most would be fine with a few bandages. The men had reacted quickly, so there were not as many dead as there could have been, but the casualties were nonetheless a grim reminder that danger still lurked in this fell place.

Thranduil offered no protest when Gareth led him back to the camp, too shell-shocked to do aught but follow the man's lead. The sounds of cries and grieving shouts rang in the air, the chaos that always followed such bloodshed, but Thranduil barely heard them. His own thoughts had washed over him like a tide, and with them all the fear and pain and dark things he had been trying to keep locked away for what felt like forever. It was as if the things he had seen and heard and felt since his capture were finally catching up to him all at once, and Thranduil could no longer hold back the storm of anguish built up inside him.

He remained where Gareth had left him, wrapped in a thin blanket near the feet of Rhiannon's horses, shivering despite the fire nearby. Everything hurt now- his back throbbing, his ribs sending sharp pains through his chest with each breath he took, and his battered body ached all over with exhaustion. But the pain of his body was still less than that of his soul, a wound that went deeper than any blade could cut.

The memories of Dol Guldur flashed through his mind, unbidden and with razor-edged clarity: Dagok's twisted grin, the whip searing his flesh again and again, the choking darkness of the fortress, devoid of all hope. In that foul place there was no light, no life, only death and more death. Then, the killing of Lindir… The desperate, tormented pleas of the innocent elf, the terror and pain reflected in his glassy eyes—those things were seared into Thranduil's memory, just like the smell of charred flesh and blood, the sound of bone cracking open to expose marrow, the raw screams of an elf begging for the mercy of death. The mere suggestion of being returned to Dagok's clutches was enough to shatter the fragile barrier he'd erected to mentally wall off those memories, and the repercussions were hitting him now all at once.

He could still feel the steely grips of orc hands pinning him to the ground, caught like an insect in a spider's web, Dagok's eyes gleaming in the torchlight. The burn of the poison spilled into his eyes with cruel slowness, then the agony that followed when Dagok merely held him down and watched him writhe in agony while his vision faded to searing black.

All the torture and the fear, the sorrow, the uncertainty of never knowing what would come next, it could not be ignored. Thranduil had shoved it all back, keeping it walled away to seethe in some dark corner of his heart so that he could steel his resolve with the sharpness of valor, but it could not be so forever.

And now, blind and beaten and lost, Thranduil felt like he was coming apart at the seams.

Everything was falling apart. Somehow, his situation kept spiraling further out of control, and as much as he wished it weren't so, it _scared_ him. What could he do if not fight, as he had done for so many thousands of years in defense of his kingdom?

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Those words echoed through Thranduil's mind, pieces of memories from a long time ago, fluttering like leaves amid a storm of emotions and thoughts. It had been so long that the memories themselves were somewhat hazy, tinted with the fuzzy golden light of a forest from another age. But they were insistent little things, those remembered words, and they brought with them another half-remembered remark from centuries ago.

_There are more ways to see than just with your eyes._

If he was going to find a way home, he would need help. And there was only one place left to find it.

Thranduil forced himself to steady his breathing, to slow his heartbeat until he could focus again. It wouldn't be so hard once he could tune out the sounds of human voices and neighing horses, and he had become more accustomed to those things than he would like to admit. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and willed the elk dreams to come. It was time to find the white wolf.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: If you read this far, I'm impressed! Thanks for reading! I try to write chapters in advance, so updates will hopefully be consistent (once a week, on Mondays). Any comments are very much appreciated ^^
> 
> Elvish translations:
> 
> Adar- father
> 
> Mellon nin- my friend
> 
> Penneth- young one
> 
> Elleth- female elf


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